In the Library
by eleanorc
Summary: Edith gets a new job that piques her interest, and she thought she would be working alone... Modern A/U.
1. Chapter 1

The absolutely perfect opportunity presented itself to Edith by way of her Aunt Rosamund's curator friend. "It will be rather dull, I'm afraid. Few visitors, long bouts of solitude, but it pays quite well and the work is interesting."

"It sounds perfect," Edith eagerly agreed, accepting the offer over the phone and scribbling the address and the caretaker's name.

"Are you sure you want to do this? A young woman shouldn't be so locked away from the world," Ros said, leaning against the doorjamb.

"That, my dear Aunt, is exactly what I need," Edith countered.

"The house is awfully close to your parents' home. Will you stop by on your way?"

Edith looked over her shoulder with a warning, sarcastic glower that said plenty about her plans regarding her parents and ever speaking to them again.

"Do you need help packing?"

Edith shook her head. No. She didn't need help packing, she needed an escape, and a life, and a job, and she found all three in farming country in some old, overstuffed estate house, apparently called _Locksley_.

* * *

The house was beautiful, and Edith's first thought was how much more inviting it appeared than the formidable Downton. This house had red brick and cheery shutters and old, misshapen trees along the drive that had long been left to nature for pruning. Being October, the leaves were orange and red and littered the barely-kept lawn surrounding them.

The cab pulled up and a kindly woman with a soft, grandmotherly smile came bustling from the huge front doors as Edith alighted.

"Hello, hello dearie," the woman waved, coming up to take one of Edith's two bags. "You're Miss Crawley, I trust?"

Edith smiled, feeling warm for the first time in months, and it had nothing to do with the autumn sun that turned everything various shades of amber. "Hello, yes. You're Mrs. Carson the caretaker?"

"Indeed. Come in, come in before you freeze. You haven't any meat on you to speak of," the older woman fussed. "And please call me Elsie."

Inside was a large, open foyer—not so grand as Downton but finer for it all the same. A rounded staircase curved up to a second-floor balustrade that revealed the beginning of a capacious hall, and to the left and right were great double doors. A hallway to the left of the stairs presumably lead to other rooms, and Edith felt the keen anticipation of further exploration.

"Alright, let's get some tea and we'll rake over everything together, yes?" asked Elsie. "Leave your bags, we'll go pick a room for you before I leave."

Edith's job was simple. The estate's sole heir had died alone sometime at the beginning of the last century. After decades of neglect, English Heritage suddenly discovered the forgotten gem and made it a listed building. Backed by members of the Historical Society, it was to be organized, cleaned, catalogued, and put to use as a museum and historical library of sorts.

Edith, who had degrees in history and comparative literature, and who didn't mind living alone in a drafty abandoned home for months, was still dubiously qualified for the job and had to pull in several favors and even employ some shameless name dropping to land it. But it was perfect. And far away from the disaster she'd made of things back home.

"My husband and I will be here at eight and six to make meals and build fires in any rooms you like. The electricians will be in next week and heaven knows how long that will take. The plumbing has already been updated in the kitchen and several washrooms on this floor. The bathrooms upstairs are functional but fickle. Be patient. She's an old home unused to visitors."

"You say no one's lived here in eighty years?" Edith asked, setting the antique teacup on its saucer and looking around.

"No, and nothing's been removed far as anyone can tell. There's always been a caretaker provided for by what remains of the estate. The last manager—and this was back in the eighties or nineties, mind—sold off most of the land to tenant farmers and left the funds in trust to manage the home. There's a pretty penny left, but not much by today's standards. I'm glad no one exploited the poor house."

"You feel sorry for the house?" Edith asked, more in observation than in mocking.

"Well you see, it was in the Strallan family for hundreds of years, and the last of the line, Sir Anthony, he was a kind and generous man according to all record. He was married but his wife died in childbirth, as did the bairn, and he died here alone with no one by his side."

"That's terrible," Edith muttered, feeling ridiculous for the tears that stung her eyes.

"It seems to me this house was meant for people, and she was left alone and in the cold," Elsie said, frowning sympathetically at the high ceilings and plaster work.

"I think I can relate," Edith muttered self-indulgently.

With a shrug and a sigh Elsie smiled. "But now you're here to dust off the old treasures and soon there will be school groups and tourists about, learning all about English farming and noble life."

Edith agreed, already feeling an attachment to the house and a fondness for the older woman. After a tour, lengthy and nearly overwhelming, Mrs. Carson helped Edith settle into one of the rooms. It wasn't overly large, and it was a touch masculine, but the moment they stepped foot inside Edith knew it should be hers.

"This room will heat nicely, and there are extra blankets in the trunk here should it get too cold at night. I'll have our boy William bring in some firewood tomorrow to keep at the hearth here," Mrs. Carson explained as they made up the bed with fresh linens together.

As Elsie made her leave, she turned to Edith. "We're so glad you're here, Pet. You have our home number if you need anything in the night. We're not far. And remember we're not here on weekends so you'll be on your own for the next two days. I stocked the fridge but if you make up a list of things you like I'll go from that."

"I'll be fine, really, Mrs. Carson. Thank you," Edith assured, almost impatient to explore the place by herself.

"Very good. See you Monday," and with that Mrs. Carson made her way to her little car parked on the side of the house.

It was cold, and Edith shivered, pulling her sweater tighter around herself as she made a slow circle in the foyer. It would take a great deal of time, and patience, to catalogue, restore, and organize the many paintings, books, furniture and other sundries in the home. She'd need help from experts in some cases, especially with the furniture, which she knew next to nothing about.

Already she knew where she would start, though. Not only from her own love, but because the room had drawn her in from the beginning as if it was the heartbeat of the house—she would start in the library.

* * *

The sun was setting behind the trees, a nightly ritual Edith enjoy as it cast strange shadows over the threadbare rugs and bulging bookshelves of the library. For weeks Edith had been toiling in here, bundled up in thick sweaters and leggings and tall socks, going through each book and categorizing, making notes, etcetera. She was surprised to find it needed little reorganizing. The books were in exceptional condition, as was the system they were shelved by.

It took her half a day to realize they were in alphabetical order by author, but within categories. Not so mind blowing perhaps, but the genres chosen were strange, almost personal. They weren't fiction, history, philosophy, etc. She wasn't sure who had chosen how to group them or why, but grouped they were.

Edith had taken no time to get used to little quirks of the great house. Strong drafts, flickering lights, fires that would refuse to light then roar to life. They didn't bother her. In fact, Edith found each little oddity made her circumstance all the more appealing, as if she were exchanging intimacies with the lonely old place. And the more she fawned over each book she found or talked to the walls as if there were someone with her, the more at home she felt and the less isolated.

On the Monday of her third week, Edith had bid Elsie and Charlie farewell for the evening, and was making her way from the kitchen to her bedroom when something caught her eye. Then she heard the unmistakable sound of a leather-bound volume sliding from the shelf.

Feeling little more than idle curiosity, Edith poked her head around the corner and into the library.

A man. Tall, lean, quite blonde, and admittedly handsome, he wore gray trousers a bit high-waisted by today's standard, and a hunter green sweater over a button-up. The man was standing at the shelves, frowning slightly as he scanned the pages of a book. Edith couldn't see which tome it was, but judging from its size she thought it might be one of the centuries old atlases she had found.

"Excuse me, but that book is quite delicate," she interrupted. "This house isn't open for visitors yet anyway. You probably shouldn't be in here."

The man looked up at her vacantly, then seemed quite alarmed to find her looking at him directly. He stared back at her for long moments, and Edith took note of his crystalline eyes despite her best efforts not to.

When the tension became too much Edith said, "I'm so sorry, I don't mean to be rude. It's just, I'm here all by myself and I'm not certain…" Her voice trailed off as the man glanced behind him and back to her, his expression alarming but wholly indiscernible.

"Are you, are you talking to me?" he finally asked in a voice that was quite pleasant despite its incredulity.

"Of course," Edith laughed. She knew he had no place there, and that he was probably mad, but she couldn't bring herself to be afraid of him, or stern with him for that matter. "How on earth did you get here?"

"You mean you can see me?" he gasped.

That sent a shiver through her, and Edith frowned.

Behind her a gust of frigid wind announced someone's entry and Mrs. Carson shuffled in. "Sorry, Pet, almost forgot to leave the skeleton key. Took a do, but we found it. I'll just set it on the table here. Alright, I'm off!" she called, gone as quickly as she'd come.

And when Edith turned back to the man he was gone as well.

"I've lost my mind," Edith muttered, wondering if it was from loneliness or if she'd always been a little mad. How else might she explain her decision to… But that was done, and suddenly she was tired.

Edith went to bed feeling… strange. She wasn't uncomfortable or even remotely frightened. But she did feel at times as though someone was watching her. She rolled her eyes at herself, scrunching deeper into the thick covers of her bed and focusing on her book. She'd found a sort of family history in the library, a journal kept by the last man to live here, Sir Anthony, and she was nearly through reading it. Mostly it covered the land and the tenants and the details of his parents' lineage.

The last bit was different, however. It was rather heartbreaking in its intoned loneliness and the story of his mourning. Edith felt her heart break for the man.

_Today I was introduced to young lady, a bold and beautiful young thing whose name I won't disrespect by mentioning here in my ramblings. She was bright and full of wit and humor. Over the course of a meal hosted by her parents I imagined what a second life may be like, but I am reminded that I long for things I do not likely deserve. I thought, briefly, of asking her to the concert next week, but I sagely chose against it. I am a man who is alone, and who will remain so, and she will forget me as her life blossoms and she enjoys summer dalliances and the excitement of first love. Such is my fate, and my will it seems._

"Oh, you poor, misguided man," Edith muttered, flipping to the next page with the zeal of a word-lover exploring Dostoyevsky. But the next page was blank. And the next. Edith fanned the journal out, nearly frantic for more of the man's words.

Nothing. That had been Sir Anthony's final say, his parting thoughts.

Then something slipped out from the back cover, tucked into the pages for the last eighty-odd years. A thick, yellowed bit of paper. In fine, scrawling cursive it said "Sir Anthony Strallan and the new mechanized bailer."

Edith flipped the paper over and gasped, loudly and dramatically in a way she hardly recognized. The photograph fell to her lap as her hands moved to her gaping mouth. She stared down at it, a chill running over her, and from the photo Sir Anthony Strallan stared back, a tempered crook of a smile on his face, his arm resting over the machine.

And though the photo was black and white, she recognized the bright blue of his eyes, as she had just seen them hours before, looking just as alarmed as she did now, downstairs, in her library.

* * *

A/N: So I'm discovering a pattern here. I take a lovely vacation in hospital, fill a notebook, and return home to a whole litany of wonderful stories to catch up on and a would-be one-shot I'm eager to post. :)

You are all dears, and I'm having such fun catching up on your stories. I will review as soon as I've a moment. This was going to be a one-off but grew too long (weird). And I'm sorry for the vague description but I didn't know how to summarize without ruining it.

Thank you! for the support of Gentleman and Adventurer, and I will get back to it after this little jaunt, which I suppose could be taken as an homage to the month of October and Halloween.

Happy reading!  
Eleanor


	2. Chapter 2

Edith had been sitting in the middle of her bed, in the dim light of the lamp, for hours trying to decide what it was she should be feeling. Her first inclination was that she was mad, that she'd seen the picture before and her subconscious reproduced it. Or perhaps she was ill. Maybe a distant Strallan relative was there and it was all a misunderstanding.

"How long have you been sitting like that?" came a man's voice, and Edith gasped when she looked up to find Sir Anthony standing near the mantle.

"You're the man, this man, this is your house," she stammered, holding out the photograph to him.

"And this is my room," he said slowly, as if she were dense. "And that's my bureau and that's my favorite reading chair, and that wardrobe used to house my day suits." He pointed to each thing and then turned back to Edith and shrugged.

"What… Do you realize you're…"

"I'm not a complete fool," he answered dryly, and suddenly Edith felt as though she were being very silly.

"I didn't know this was your room. I would have assumed yours was one of the rooms at the end of either wing, the biggest ones with the views."

"I never was one for opulence. Not to mention I believe I was conceived in one of those rooms and the notion rather put me off."

Edith laughed at his joke, and then stifled it. She was talking to a ghost, wasn't she? No, that wasn't possible. Edith scoffed.

"Might I ask what you find so humorous?" Sir Anthony asked, stuffing his hands into his pockets and waiting patiently.

Edith swallowed. "I think I've a tumor pressing on my brainstem and it's causing me to hallucinate. Or I've just gone completely mad. Frankly, neither one would surprise me."

Sir Anthony frowned at her, and Edith felt a pleasant sort of shiver run over her spine. "Well, I don't believe I'm an hallucination as you suggest, but I suppose it's one possibility. No one else has ever noticed my presence, so your idea is good as any I might come up with."

He scratched his knuckles over his chin in a gesture wholly natural and masculine and, Edith mused with curiosity, quite human. She cocked her head to one side, observing the man as he stared absently at the floor, clearly trying to sort something out. She crawled to the end of the bed sluggishly, a bit entranced by the whole thing.

When Sir Anthony's blue eyes looked back to her he flinched, causing Edith to still her movements. Then he frowned again.

"What?" she asked, suddenly self-conscious.

"Are you, I don't know, _approaching_ me?" he asked, apparently confused and perhaps even a little outraged.

Edith blushed. "I'm, I'm sorry. I'll leave, if you like, this being your room and all. I'm not really sure what etiquette dictates in this situation."

Ridiculous, the whole bloody thing, Edith thought. She was definitely mad.

"No, no. I'm sorry," he said quickly, taking a few steps toward her. "I, I suppose I'm just surprised. I would have expected you to be quite afraid of me, run away and call the vicar or some such thing."

"Why? Are you a mean or violent person?"

"No," Sir Anthony answered. "But I am, well… you know."

Edith nodded, apologized for lord knows what, which caused him to frown again, and then all fell silent.

"Leave it to me," Edith mumbled after a few moments, shaking her head at herself. Only she could manage to be socially awkward with a ghost of all people, or things, or whatever.

"Leave what to you, exactly?" he asked softly.

Edith looked back to him, embarrassed. "Sorry, nothing. I'm just, well I'm not good at meeting new, um, people," she stammered. Sitting on the edge of the bed as she was, wearing her flannel pajama shirt and leggings, she suddenly felt quite exposed.

"Well, I certainly can't blame you for being a bit stumped," he said, and for the first time he smiled.

"Have you just been, sort of, floating around here for eighty years?" she blurted, immediately feeling she'd said something bellicose.

The gentleman, to her relief, laughed. "I don't know, time means something else in my, em, condition I suppose. And I never _float_."

Edith smiled, blushed again, and rubbed her arms. "Does it bother you that I'm here?"

"Not in the least. As a matter of fact I've rather enjoyed the conversations you have with yourself," he answered, offering her a cheeky grin.

"Oh lord, if I'd known," she grumbled, hiding her humiliation by dropping her face to her hand. Then something else occurred to her and she looked up sharply. "How long have you been watching me? And _where_ exactly have you been watching me?"

Sir Anthony looked confused for a moment, before his expression changed to one of shock. "I am a gentleman, madam! And no peeping tom, thank you very much."

Edith laughed again, and judging by his glower that only made things worse. "I'm sorry," she giggled, standing from the bed. "I didn't mean to offend."

He accepted her apology, a bit sheepishly, and smiled when Edith giggled again.

"What?" he asked, running a hand through his hair.

"I didn't know ghosts could blush," she said.

They watched each other for a few moments before Anthony shrugged. "I suppose I'll leave you be. Do you mind my, um, joining you on occasion?"

"Are you kidding?" Edith asked. "The only people I've seen in weeks are the Carsons and the occasional laborer. I'd be so glad for some company. And anyway, I'm meant to catalogue everything in the house and try to restore it somewhat. Who better to help?"

"You want my help?"

"If it's not too much trouble," she said, though when she had decided to befriend the ghost of Locksley she couldn't really say.

"I did have some pressing engagements," he said.

"Oh, I, I understand," Edith nodded. "Sorry." His face went a bit flat as he waited for Edith to catch on, and then she was laughing again. "You're really quite funny," she noted.

"Yes, well, one must laugh at oneself, don't you think?"

Edith nodded her agreement, and then something quiet and companionable passed between them. She chewed her bottom lip, dropping her head to the side as she observed the bones of his jaw, his thin lips and proud nose, he had broad shoulders, a slight, albeit appealing, stoop, and something in his general air that spoke of decency and intelligence.

"All done?" he asked suddenly, and Edith felt a touch of shame color her cheeks.

"Sorry."

"No transparent spots? No decomposition?" he confirmed. Edith shook her head with a laugh. "Would you prefer it if I were more ghoulish in appearance?"

"Do you have a choice?" Edith asked sincerely.

"Don't think so," he said. "I never really considered it before." He released a soft chuckle, and Edith wondered if he was solid, and warm. She had half a mind to reach out and stroke his face, but resisted.

"You should get some rest. I promise I shan't disturb you again," Sir Anthony said, turning away from her to go to the door.

"I feel strange, staying in your room while you go elsewhere," Edith admitted, following behind him.

"If that's the only thing about this endeavor that is strange to you, I should consider it very lucky indeed."

"Can anyone else see you?"

"I suppose we'll find out," he said.

"Tomorrow then? You'll help in the library?"

"Library's the most organized room in this pile of bricks. If you'll put me to work you may as well do it somewhere useful like the attics.

"The skeleton key doesn't work for the attic doors. I tried."

"Well, I'll have a word with the owner and see if he might know a way in," Sir Anthony said.

Edith leaned against the door. "Thank you, Sir Anthony."

"Perhaps you might call me Anthony? It's been many years since someone has."

"Anthony, I'm Edith," she said, offering her hand without thinking then snatching it away just as quickly.

He looked down curiously at her little maneuver, then back to her face with an amused expression.

"Goodnight, Edith."

With that she shut the door and made her way to her bed—his bed—and laid down wondering if she hadn't known all along this was his personal space. A faint sound reached her, and she realized it was his footsteps moving down the stairs. She smiled when she heard sounds in the library. Something about knowing he was home made her feel quite at ease, and she drifted off quickly and without hesitation.

The next morning Edith woke slowly, stretching her arms over her head and smiling for no reason other than she felt comfortable and well-rested for the first time in ages. Then the night's conversation came like a flash and she bolted up.

Throwing on an oversized fisherman sweater over he things and pulling on some knit wool socks, she hurried downstairs. She checked the library first, and it was empty. A quick and disappointing survey of the main floor told Edith she had indeed lost her mind, or had experienced a very vivid dream after reading Strallan's family history.

When Edith trudged into the kitchen she found Mrs. Carson pulling a quiche out of the oven to set.

"Morning, Edith. Sleep well?" Mrs. Carson asked warmly. She brought over a pot of tea and a mug and set them on the kitchen table as Edith took a seat.

"Fine, she mumbled, remembering the minute details about Anthony's visage that were seared into her memory.

"You sure?" the older woman asked, sitting across from her with a sigh.

"Have you worked here long?"

"Oh, my, yes," Mrs. Carson answered. "I used to teach at a little school and then when Charlie retired from the shop he ran, we decided this would be the perfect thing. Just come and check on the place. The estate manager was a friend of Charlie's, and it paid enough for us not to worry. That was, let's see, ten years ago now?"

"Have you ever noticed anything strange about the house?"

"Like what?"

"Like, doors shutting on their own and odd noises," Edith hedged, not willing to say she had a full-blown (and rather flirtatious) conversation with an entity the night before.

"Old houses are drafty, but no, I haven't ever noticed anything out of the ordinary. Why?"

"Just curious," Edith shrugged, staring into her tea and feeling utterly deflated.

"Are you sure you want to keep staying here all by your lonesome? You could come home with Charlie and me, and work here normal hours like we do. Big old empty place, no wonder you're hearing things go bump in the night."

Edith reached across to lay her hand on Elsie's forearm. "Thank you, I like being alone out here though."

"Can't understand why," Mrs. Carson sighed. "Though I'd bet it has to do with a gentleman friend? A bit of a sad history perhaps?" She was fishing, but Edith didn't mind.

"He wasn't much of a gentleman it turns out, but then I'm not much of a lady."

Mrs. Carson cupped Edith's chin and gave a little squeeze. "Not one of us is perfect, dearie. Just don't punish yourself for too long, hmm?"

Edith smiled weakly. "I'm going to go shower and get ready. I think I'll take a break from the library and try the attics."

"We've some young men restoring the stables so Charlie and I will be down there today. You've the place to yourself."

"Thanks Elsie," Edith sighed, returning to her room with much less enthusiasm than when she had left.

Dressed in her gray leggings and a soft cardigan, Edith stood before the door to the attic stairs, wondering if she might be able to unhinge it to get it open.

"Is this a favorite pastime of yours?" Anthony asked suddenly from right behind her. Edith yelped and jumped away from him, stumbling into the corner of the narrow space.

"What is _wrong_ with you?" she hissed.

"I'm technically deceased for one thing," Anthony said with a sly smile as Edith tried to slow her breathing.

"I mean, why do you keep sneaking up on me like that?" But then she was so pleased to see him again she couldn't quite stay mad either.

"I'm sorry. I think it's the right of the undead to be sneaky."

Edith rolled her eyes. "I'm glad to see you."

"Miss me?" he teased.

"Don't be a cad. And where were you anyway? Have you got many places to go?"

Anthony frowned as if affronted. "I was busy looking for this," he said, pulling a key from the pocket of his jacket. Only then did Edith realize he was wearing brown slacks now, a white button-down and a tweed jacket.

"You changed?"

"So did you," Anthony said as if she were being daft.

"Yes, but you—do you bathe as well? Do you have to cut your hair?"

Anthony looked pensive. "Never really thought about it, to be honest. There aren't rules, I don't think. Some days I actually manage to forget and I go about my routine. Others, since you've come mostly, I'm a bit more… self-aware."

"Where do you keep your clothes?"

"Well they _were_ in a fine wardrobe in a certain bedroom but this morning I found nothing but feminine things I daresay wouldn't fit."

Edith couldn't fight the smile at that comment and turned back to the door. "Where was the key? And why is it different?"

"It was in my desk in the study, and it's different because I didn't want anyone in the attics."

"Why?"

"Because when my wife and child died I locked all their things away up here and didn't care to have them disturbed."

"I'm sorry," Edith murmured.

"Whatever for?"

"I forget, sometimes, that this is your home, these are your things."

"I have far less a right to be here than you do at this point," Anthony said softly.

They held eye contact for a time that was longer than polite. Edith couldn't find it in herself to be afraid, or uncomfortable. It seemed familiar.

"I feel like I've known you for a long time," she said.

"Perhaps in a former life," he said dismissively, but Edith wondered if perhaps it wasn't true.

Anthony made a noise of triumph when he opened the door, and stepped aside. He made a gallant gesture for Edith to enter, but she hesitated. "Are you alright with my being here?"

"Edith, it's been lifetimes. Literally. You can't do anything to me I haven't done to myself."

"That's an odd thing to say."

"Is it?"

"Why are you here still? Is it some kind of penance?"

"I don't know," Anthony whispered, and Edith noticed how close she'd come to him as the both stood in the doorway.

"This is no place to exact some sort of self-imposed imprisonment," Edith said.

"Is it not?" Anthony asked pointedly, and Edith knew he wasn't referring to himself.

"You don't know anything about why I'm here," she said, her face hot with anger.

"Edith, I'll make you a deal. I'll answer any question you like about anything you should find here in Locksley."

"If?"

"If you tell me about yourself in return."

"Why?"

"Because you're the first soul who has spoken to me in eighty years and I find you quite remarkable."

Edith's cheeks went pink. "Deal," she said, turning and moving up the stairs before Anthony could see the stupid smile that forced its way to her face.


	3. Chapter 3

The attic looked as any attic of such a house must, Edith supposed. Low, small windows let in light that was dulled by the autumn afternoon and the thick layer of dust over everything. Crates and trunks were laid in orderly fashion, a number of large furniture pieces were draped with sheets, a floor-length mirror in the corner was so tarnished by time it showed no reflection at all. Edith looked around slowly, wondering where she might start first.

"It's very tidy," Edith said, wandering further into the long, narrow space.

"I like to keep things organized."

"Don't suppose you kept a catalogue of everything did you?" she asked, turning back to him with an arched brow.

"No, and anyway that would be cheating wouldn't it? If I'm not mistaken it's your job whilst here to create such a catalogue."

"Just thought I'd ask. Is there anything here you would prefer no one see?"

"I think most of the bodies I buried are below the house, you should be fine," he answered dryly.

"Were you always this sarcastic or is it merely a posthumous quality?"

"Don't remember actually," Anthony said, his voice a bit softer. Edith turned to run a hand over the nameplate on a nearby trunk. The engraving read _M. E. Strallan_.

"What _do_ you remember?"

"I remember my wife, I remember her death quite clearly, and the moment I held my stillborn son to say goodbye. I remember feeling a constant regret, but I can't remember why or what about, and I know it wasn't about Maude. Something happened after, in the twenty years between her death and mine, but that whole time is a bit hazy."

"But you were alone, you never remarried?"

Anthony pulled a sheet from a gray velvet divan and dropped down, crossing his legs at the ankle. "Of that I can say I'm certain. There was no one after Maude."

"You loved her very much."

"I loved being married, I loved the prospect of children, I loved our life."

"That's not the same thing," Edith said, too overwhelmed by the number of boxes to start digging in. She weaved around several crates and took a seat at the end of the divan by Anthony's feet.

They studied each other for a moment when Edith finally said, "Why are you haunting this place Anthony?"

"I might ask you the same thing," he replied. He folded his hands behind his head in a most relaxed gesture and smiled, the same bent grin Edith was already growing familiar with.

"It's not something I like to talk about."

"We had a deal."

"Ask me something else."

"Who is Michael?"

Edith balked, torn between annoyance and embarrassment. She wondered how Anthony knew the name, and whether there wasn't some level of omniscience in his condition.

Anthony must have seen the question somewhere in her expression because he dropped his hands to his lap and folded them together. "I, uh, I saw you leafing through a volume of Shakespeare, stop suddenly, and then you said 'Go to hell, Michael,' snapped it shut and carried on. It, uh, piqued my curiosity."

"You really were watching me for the first several weeks I was here?"

"I was."

"A bit creepy, don't you think?"

"I'm not purposefully voyeuristic. You happened to be in my library, where I prefer to spend my time. That's all."

Edith smiled. "I don't really mind."

"You still haven't answered my question."

"Michael. Michael is a book editor, and he worked at my Papa's publishing firm."

"Very vague. You know, the more evasive you are the more interested I become."

"You're a pest."

Anthony chuffed happily and looked around. "Assuming I won't get any more information out of you, how would you like to go about this?"

"Oh, I don't know where to start," Edith said, standing quickly. She did, after all, have a job to do. "What do you think?"

"Well," Anthony said, standing as well. "Most of this here is going to be clothing. Maude's. All the furniture is in the other wing's attic, though I never was one for holding on to things. Those crates there," he said, gesturing to the far end of the attic, "Will be my childhood things, children's books and toys that were meant to be handed down."

"Let's start there," Edith suggested. "I want to hear all about your childhood."

She did hear about Anthony's childhood, over the next several days. As they sifted through one box at a time, discovering some sentimental treasures and the occasional valuable antique, Edith delighted in every detail. She heard about his older sister, who married well and moved to Scotland, of his older brother who had died of fever at a young age, and of his overbearing parents. His sister had no children, thus when she passed Anthony had no surviving heirs at all.

"Both my parents were only children, you see," Anthony had said, showing Edith had to operate an old wind-up carousel.

"Sounds frightfully lonely," Edith had replied. "I have my two sisters and we had several cousins and loads of extended family. Of course," she had scoffed, "That didn't always make it less lonely. Just less peaceful."

Anthony had looked at her with something like pity and Edith flushed, both of them saved by the tension when the carousel began to spin and play a little tune.

In addition to their own pasts, Edith peppered Anthony with all sorts of questions. _Do you eat? Can you pass through walls? Do you socialize with other ghosts?_ The answers to those had been _if I want_, _I think_, and _no_. Mostly Anthony explained that he isn't always conscious of his 'living situation' and that he enjoys many of the same pleasures he had in life, which caused Edith to blush and change the subject.

It took a week, in all, to catalogue that half of the attic, and to take down the few things Edith thought might be worthy of display downstairs. And in that time, Edith grew quite fond of Sir Anthony Strallan. They were good companions, she decided. They had similar interests, and never ran out of things to talk about. Anthony's humor was a welcome relief from the self-loathing thoughts Edith had simmered in for months.

"You really are terribly funny," Edith said for about the tenth time one evening, after the Carsons had left and they sat near the fire in the library chatting happily over a pan of bread pudding. They had fallen into a routine, Edith begging off dinner until after Elsie and Charlie left. She and Anthony would eat together in the kitchen and bring dessert to what was quickly becoming _their_ library, rarely bothering with things like plates or napkins.

"I don't know about that, Edith," he murmured sheepishly, dismissive as always of any complement she might pay him.

She dropped her fork to the half-empty pan and sighed, full and warm and quite content. "It's been a long time since I laughed at any rate."

"I don't understand it," Anthony said, leaning back against the side of the sofa, one arm propped on his bent knee. "You're young and bright. Why are you so morose all the time?"

"I'm not!" Edith protested.

"Well not now that I'm around no," he said with a cheeky smile. Edith threw a pillow at him though it fell shamefully short of his long limbs. "Seriously, the time has come Edith. Why did you agree to come out here?"

Edith looked away, pressing her chin into her shoulder and examining the shelves of books as though she were seeing them for the first time. "What are the categories you have these sorted by? I haven't been able to discern any patterns," she said absently.

She heard Anthony sigh, and after a few moments he said, "They're organized by who gave them to me, or what stage in my life they represent. It was easier to track that way."

"How do you mean?"

"Well that section by the door there," he said, and Edith caught his loose gesture in her peripherals. "Those were all from my father. He insisted I read them, and a great many of them I had before I was fourteen. They're rather dull, I'm afraid."

Edith made a noncommittal sound, imagining Anthony as a young man, pouring over some heavy text of moral and ethical philosophy when all he longed to do was go play outside.

"Those, there, are from boarding school. I found I wasn't terribly social, and when I wasn't doing something athletic I preferred books over the shenanigans the other chaps got into. Plus it was either bully or be bullied and I avoided both by hiding in the library."

"Poor darling," Edith murmured, hoping immediately he hadn't heard her.

"This section was from University, next is my early years with Maude, then things about or relating to the estate management and farm mechanization, etcetera. Then the last section is from those lost years, the time I can't remember."

"It's my favorite," Edith murmured, standing up to get a closer look at the last bank of shelves.

"How so?"

"I mean all my favorites are here. Poetry and novels, all the classics—Keats to Yeats, you have all the novelists too. Tolstoy, Twain, Flaubert, James, de Balzac, Zola, Eliot," Edith listed.

"You left out Dickens."

Edith made a face over her shoulder, climbing the fixed latter toward the upper shelves. "Dickens is overrated. He is too impressed with his own cleverness and he's an intellectual snob."

"He pointed out the flaws in his own class."

"His and everyone else's," Edith groused. "If you want someone who writes brilliant satire about society I say go with…" she trailed off, leaning precariously to the other end of the top shelf for the title she had in mind. "Aha!" she said, pulling the thin volume from the shelf.

Perhaps a little too enthusiastic about her find, Edith lost her grip on the ladder. She felt her body falling and braced for impact, but it never came. Opening her eyes she found herself in the arms of Sir Anthony Strallan.

"So you are solid," Edith whispered numbly, enchanted by the details she now saw from her new vantage point, like the flecks of gold and white in his blue irises and the tiny wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, and the muscles in his neck and chest.

"You were expecting vapor?" he asked softly.

"I don't know what I was expecting," Edith answered, trying and failing to recover from the sudden proximity.

Anthony set Edith's feet back on the ground, but his arms remained loosely around her waist for a bit, as though afraid she might fall again. When he finally released his hold and stepped back, he masked the blushing silence by asking, "What novel was worth risking life and limb?"

Edith held the little book up. "Chesterton's _The Napoleon of Notting Hill._"

Anthony smiled—a knowing, cunning expression—and opened to the title page, presenting it to Edith. A hand-written note read, _Adventures happen on dull days, and not on sunny ones. When the chord of monotony is stretched most tight, then it breaks with a sound like a song._

"Who wrote that?"

"Chesterton," Anthony said dully.

"I know _that_," Edith scolded. "I meant who wrote the note."

"I did."

"Was the book intended as a gift?"

Anthony frowned. "I think so. I don't remember. But it's one of my favorite reads."

Edith smiled. "Humanity as a whole is changeful, mystical, fickle, delightful. Men are men, but Man is a woman."

"Be careful how you suggest things to me. For there is in me a madness which goes beyond martyrdom, the madness of an utterly idle man," Anthony returned.

"There is a law written in the darkest of the Books of Life, and it is this. If you look at a thing nine hundred and ninety-nine times, you are safe, but if you look at it the thousandth time, you are in danger of seeing it for the first time," Edith said gravely, unable to tear her eyes away from the man she had seen nine hundred and ninety-nine times over the last week.

Anthony, when he spoke again, sounded almost pained. "To each man one soul only is given, to each soul only is given a little power – the power at some moments to outgrow and swallow up the stars."

Edith began to wonder when he had come so close, or was it she who had approached him? She could see his eyes moving back and forth between hers, and she had to resist the urge to look down at his lips. She gave up, however, when he spoke again.

"Every man is dangerous who cares only for one thing. I am dangerous myself."

"That's a misquote. It's 'I was once dangerous myself'," Edith squeaked.

"I know," was all he said, and Edith forced herself to breathe.

"I'm glad you're a fan."

"I'm surprised you are."

"Why? I studied literature and culture, and politics and history. Chesterton suits me quite well."

"My apologies, Lady Edith," Anthony said, bowing slightly.

Edith laughed, and nearly jumped out of her skin when the clock on the wall struck eleven. "Have we been here talking for that long?" she muttered rhetorically. When she turned back to Anthony she found he was staring at her with a queer expression. "Why do you look so serious?" she asked.

And as quickly as she'd seen it the look was gone, replaced with his usual crooked smirk. "I don't take anything seriously, Edith."

"You take a great many things seriously, you just hide it," she grumbled, pulling her sweater tighter around herself. Curious, she dropped her head to one side and asked, "Do you sleep?"

"Sometimes I think I've slept, but I always wonder if I don't just get lost in the tedium of my existence."

"Well _I_ sleep," she said. "Would you, would you stay with me?"

"How do you mean?"

"I know it's stupid, because I'm a grown woman and all, and blah-blah-blah. Anthony, I'm all alone in a huge, cold house, and I hear you down here at night. Will you come to bed with me, please?"

"Oh," he said, looking adorably embarrassed. Edith laughed lightly at him. "Oh, you'd like…for me to… are you certain?"

"Anthony, I realize you're from another time, and that what I'm asking might have been considered scandalous. But I assure you I mean you no harm. I just…"

"I know. I didn't think… I'm just surprised."

"I don't know why."

Anthony stared at her blankly for a few moments, then he ran his knuckles over his chin in a gesture Edith had come to recognize as one of deliberation.

"Oh, come on," she half-growled, taking Anthony by the hand and pulling him after her. It was a slow climb of the stairs, and one that felt quite new and comfortable all at once. Edith, already in leggings and a sweater, simply climbed into bed, folding down the quilt for Anthony and waiting pointedly.

Anthony sat stiffly on the edge of the bed and took his time removing his shoes. When he laid back against the pillows he did it as far from Edith as he could manage and folded his hands over his chest.

Edith smiled when he finally hazarded a glance over at her. It was a start, she figured, and even if he was gone by morning, she'd feel immensely better knowing he had been there at all.

"Goodnight, Anthony," she muttered, feeling sleep coming quickly.

"Goodnight, my sweet," Anthony whispered.

And when Edith opened her eyes to look at him once more before drifting off, she saw Anthony for the thousandth time, and was quite sure she'd never see him the same again.

* * *

A/N: Thank you for the reviews, follows and faves! And all the lovely support. Also, if you haven't already you should check out Tarlea's wonderful _Beyond the Sunset_ for another story of this sort. She and I are taking a hiatus from reading each other's ghost stories so any redundancy is pure coincidence. :) Happy reading!


	4. Chapter 4

It was easy for Edith to forget sometimes what the reality of her situation was. One moment she'd be chatting happily with Anthony as if they'd known each other her entire life, and the next he'd be gone and Mrs. Carson would be frowning at her and asking after Edith's health.

"I'm fine, Mrs. Carson," Edith said one such afternoon in late November. A light snow had dusted the yards and Edith had just been telling Anthony how fond she was of the white when they had been interrupted.

Because of course Anthony wasn't real, at least to anyone else, and Edith couldn't begin to offer an explanation as to how she would deal with that fact indefinitely.

Mrs. Carson eyed her skeptically for a moment before finally turning and leaving Edith alone in one of the upstairs parlors where a collection of snuff boxes had been unearthed.

Edith sank down to the floor behind the nearby sofa, dropping her head into her hands. It wasn't even that she was barking mad that bothered her, if that was indeed the case. It was the want inside her that refused to be tamed and went constantly unanswered. Like ignoring a festering wound, it only got worse and more angry.

"You're worried," Anthony observed, leaning over the back of the couch to hover above her.

After a month of his nearly-constant companionship, Edith knew better than to deny it.

"I wish things were different. I wish I were different," she said.

Anthony sighed and turned to drop back to sit on the sofa properly.

"Can I help?"

"I don't see how. I'm miserable about my past, and less than optimistic about my future, and my… my best friend is most likely the manifestation of a brain disease."

Anthony chuckled sadly. "I keep telling you, a brain tumor wouldn't have gotten you into the attic or helped you in all the rooms down here."

"You're a very industrious brain tumor, I'll grant you that," Edith said, standing to join him on the sofa, taking the far end from where he sat.

Edith was less afraid to get near him after so much time. Still, she regulated her physical affection, worried to find a limit between the ethereal and the earthly.

"Perhaps it will help if you talk about your past. Sweetheart, whatever happened it can't be healthy to keep it all bottled up."

"You'll think I'm a huge, moronic fool."

"You cavort with imaginary friends," Anthony teased, "I already think you a fool. What have you got to lose?"

Edith looked up at him, nearly won over. Then he turned the full force of his blue eyes on her and said, "It's not like I'm going to run and tell anybody, am I?"

Edith knew she would never keep anything from Anthony for very long, especially when he seemed to know what power his eyes had over her. Taking a deep breath and wringing her hands, she tried to find the words to begin.

"My father owns a publishing firm."

"Yes, you 've said as much."

"Anthony, I'm going to stutter and fumble and ramble this story, it would be best if you didn't interrupt."

"My apologies," he said with a smile.

"I write, well I _wrote_ I suppose. And I completed a novel the summer after I finished my second degree." Edith risked a glance up and Anthony looked neither appalled or like he was trying not to laugh at her. "I toiled over it forever and to my immense surprise, Papa agreed to read it. Even more to my surprise he liked it and wanted to publish it."

Anthony opened his mouth to speak, but seemed to remember Edith's request for no interruptions, and shut it again.

"Papa wouldn't edit it because of nepotism and all, so he gave it to one of his staff, Michael Gregson."

Here Anthony coughed, and Edith guessed it was to mask a comment he had started to make.

"Michael and I spent a great deal of time going over the book, and he was flirtatious from the start. I was flattered, and thought he was handsome and worldly and successful—very different from all the boys I knew in University and such. I was as disinterested in them as they were in me, I think. Anyway, Michael was different. I was smitten.

"So we started…seeing each other. And then I found out he was married, but when I went to Michael he said they were separated, his wife was schizophrenic or something and lived in a hospital. I couldn't begrudge the man that, could I?"

Anthony grumbled something like "I very well could," and then mouthed an apology and waited for Edith to continue.

"So, so we had this affair that I thought was the love I'd always been looking for. I trusted him completely, and he treated me very well, and I was happy."

Edith closed her eyes as if that might make it all go away. She could still feel his hands under her clothes, see his dimples and the curl of hair across his forehead. She remembered the time he took her to the Ritz and she was so proud to be out with him, Michael, a grown man who adored her.

"What happened, my sweet?" Anthony asked softly, brining Edith back to the present.

"He said he would divorce his wife but it would take time. While his lawyers worked on it he wanted me 'taken care of' in his words, should something unexpected happen. So I signed some papers, power of attorney or some such thing. I would have signed anything he put in front of me. I was stupid."

"You were in love."

"I _thought_ I was in love. No interrupting."

"Apologies."

"Anyway, Michael left town a few days later on business, and I never saw him again. It seems he had accrued many a debt, and then his lovely and perfectly sound-of-mind wife left him and took all of her family's money with her. And the papers I had signed put all of it—his mortgages, his loans, all of it—into my name.

"My father's solicitors got me out of what they could and he paid what they couldn't. The way Papa disowned me—publicly, by the way, at my sister's wedding—you would think he had lost everything to pay off my mistake. It was an obscene amount of money, but he kept his business and his homes."

Edith sat for a moment, reliving the anger in her father's words, quiet though they had been spoken.

"You will never contact me again, not for anything. You did an incredibly stupid and selfish thing, disgraced yourself and the family, cost me thousands upon thousands. No daughter of mine would ever do something so reprehensibly idiotic and unsavory, so you are no longer my daughter."

"Oh Edith," Anthony breathed. "He said that?"

"Those were his exact words. I think it would have been easier if he had yelled, thrown a tantrum. But he, he just said it coldly, softly, while we were posing on the front steps with Mary and Matthew and the rest of the wedding party."

"That's the worst thing a parent could possibly say. It's inexcusable. He's the one who should feel ashamed."

Edith wiped the tears from her eyes, still humiliated and humbled and very much alone. "I packed my things up that night and moved to my Aunt Ros' until I could figure something out. My book, of course, was scrapped, and I had no job. I did nothing for two months but cry and send out my CV. Then one day her curator friend called, and the rest is history."

"You really are hiding out here," he muttered. "My poor darling, I can't believe what that rake Gregson did. If I had a choice I'd be his personal poltergeist, if it is of any consolation."

Edith sobbed a laugh. Then, before she could help herself, she was reaching for him.

By the time they had settled again, Edith found herself in Anthony's arms, still very much in awe of how real he felt against her. Her face was buried in the crook of his neck, her knees awkwardly pressing into his thighs. He was all muscle and warmth and, oh, she could stay there forever.

_Forever_.

The question of the future rose again. Edith closed her eyes against it and pulled tighter to him.

"Tell me, darling. What else? Has the rest of your family followed suit?"

"My sisters have been kinder, Sybil especially. Mama hasn't spoken to me, though Ros said she's a bit tortured by the whole thing. I find it hard to forgive any mother who lets something come between her and her children, but I'm not exactly in a place to judge."

"You did nothing wrong, Edith. You made a mistake, undoubtedly, but no one on this earth is perfect. I can't believe they blame you."

"_I _blame me."

"I wish you wouldn't."

"I wish I had met you earlier," Edith said before she could stop herself. She felt Anthony look down at her, felt his nose press into her hair, felt the warmth of his breath over her face. He was _real_, she kept thinking. Because nothing would convince her what she was feeling was an invention.

After a while he said softly, "I wish a great many things."

"Anthony, I" Edith began, and suddenly she was lying against the moth-eaten throw pillows and Mrs. Carson was humming in the hall.

"Edith, dearie," the woman called. When she came in she looked alarmed. "Edith, are you well?" she fussed, rushing over to press a hand to Edith's forehead.

"I'm not, actually. I think I'm just tired."

"Well it's no wonder. You got the first attic done, and all the rooms on the main floor. If I didn't know better I'd think you had helpers."

Edith blushed at the statement that was a bit too close to truth and allowed Elsie to help her up.

"Now, I've had a lamb stew going all day in the kitchen. I'm going to leave it to simmer. You just have a lie-down and eat whenever you wish, alright?"

Edith nodded as they made their way down the hall to Edith's and Anthony's room, because of course it was his as much as hers.

"You look like you've been crying," Mrs. Carson tutted, turning down the bed for Edith. "Are you sure you wouldn't like to talk? I'm a good listener, I promise."

Edith thought for a moment of how ridiculous she would sound telling Mrs. Carson that she had feelings for a ghost who may or may not exist at all.

"No, I just need to rest. Really, I'm fine."

Mrs. Carson frowned. "Very well. Charlie and I were going to take off, but if you'd like for us to stay…"

"No, no. I'm just going to get some sleep. Enjoy your weekend," Edith said quickly. As much as she enjoyed the Carsons, and she did, Edith loved that from 6:00 Friday evening to 8:00 Monday morning her world consisted only of Sir Anthony and his home.

"Very well. Call if you need anything at all."

"Thank you, Elsie."

As soon as the dear woman was gone, Edith buried her face in her pillow. She didn't have Michael, she didn't have her family, and none of it would matter if she could have Anthony, but she couldn't. Could she?

"Is this just about Michael and your father? Or is there more at play?" Anthony asked suddenly, though his appearances no longer startled her.

"I don't know anymore. I think I'm going mad."

"I assure you, you're not," Anthony said, and Edith felt his weight on the other side of the bed. While they had taken to sleeping beside one another every night, they were both careful not to touch. Now, though, Edith felt him move, felt his body pull the linens taught as he came to settle beside her above the quilt. Then his arm was holding her against him and his breath, that sweet evidence of his existence, was against her neck.

"Anthony, you're the best friend I've ever had. Is that a terribly needy thing to say?"

"No. Now get some sleep. You have over done it, I think."

"I hate sleep."

"Why?" he asked with a little laugh.

"Because I'm always afraid that when I wake up you'll have disappeared and I'll never see you again."

Anthony tightened his hold around her. "Edith, darling, I wouldn't do that to you. Even if I wanted to I don't think I could."

"Really?"

"Really."

Edith almost asked him again, that question she repeated so often. _Why are you stuck here?_ But she refrained, relishing in this rare moment of affection.

"What will we do tomorrow?" she asked, the question hurting all the way through her. Anthony, she thought, pressed a kiss to her shoulder through the many layers of cotton bedding but she couldn't be sure.

"Tomorrow I go to work on cheering you up, alright? And we'll worry about the rest later."

"Later sounds nice."

"Mm-hmm," Anthony agreed.

Later, Edith happily accepted. For now she was in his arms, alone in their bed, and he was going to make everything better.

* * *

A/N: Thank you for continuing to read and review! About this chapter... I've never trusted Gregson but the moment he had Edith sign papers (before seducing her, the ass) I predicted something like I wrote here happening in Canon. I hope I'm wrong, but things are just not boding well for our poor Edith, are they?! Ugh... JF is killing me.


	5. Chapter 5

When Edith woke she could feel Anthony was still with her despite the fact he was no longer pressed against her back. She smiled, rubbing her face against the pillow for a moment as she slowly came to consciousness. She could still smell him—a clean scent, like cotton, and a hint of cologne. Then another smell wafted to her, and she finally opened her eyes.

Anthony was standing beside the bed, holding a tray of bagels and lox and a fresh pot of coffee. "I'm not much of a cook, I'm afraid, but I can assemble very well if I do say so myself," Anthony said.

Edith smiled and leaned up while Anthony arranged the tray over her lap and sat on the edge of the bed.

"You didn't have to do all this," she said, beaming like an idiot.

"I told you, today's mission is to cheer you up. This is just the first part." Suddenly Anthony's eyes grew alarmed. "Oh Lord, you do like lox don't you? I can take off the dill or the capers or the tomato."

"Anthony, it's perfect," Edith said, stopping him just short of panic. "No one's ever brought me breakfast in bed."

Anthony smiled and said, "I would gladly bring you breakfast in bed every morning under the condition it was my bed you were in." Then, as quickly as the words had been spoken, he seemed to grow embarrassed.

"I _am_ in your bed every morning," Edith said, laughing at him. Anthony only nodded and muttered something about finishing her meal.

An hour later Edith was showered, dressed in jeans and thick shawl neck sweater, and was pulling her riding boots on while Anthony waited patiently by the door.

"Bundle up, we'll be outside and it's quite chilly," he said.

"Do you get cold, Anthony Strallan?" Edith asked, long past any embarrassment about the facts of Anthony's existence.

He looked pensive. "I'm not entirely sure. Sometimes I think I'm cold, but again Edith, it was easy to forget most days, until you arrived. It's rather like I woke up after eighty years of drifting."

Edith chewed on that as she wrapped a scarf around her neck and took his hand, following him out the front door. There was something happening, of that she was certain. At first Edith had tried to ignore the undeniable truth of who and what Anthony was. And it was easy to do because he was so real, so tangible.

"You're brooding," Anthony said softly as he led Edith away across the yard.

"I'm thinking."

"Like I said."

Edith smiled wryly and tucked closer against him.

"I think there's an answer, Anthony."

"To what?"

"I think there's a reason you're here, and I think if we really try we might find out what it is."

Anthony frowned, looking humored but uncertain. "Why do you need to know so badly?"

"Don't you want to know why?"

Anthony didn't answer, but just released Edith's hand to wrap it around his forearm and patted it affectionately.

They walked in silence for a long time, neither speaking. Edith wondered if Anthony knew far more than he was letting on. He had this look about him sometimes, not patronizing but somehow perceptive, as if he knew her far better than she knew herself and she was playing catch-up.

"I've been thinking," Anthony began slowly, looking sideways at Edith. She waited for him to continue and snorted when he didn't.

"Don't keep me in suspense."

"Your father scrapped your novel, yes?"

Edith stiffened instinctively, a chill running through her at the memories, so many harsh looks and nervous stares the last time she walked out of her father's offices. Because of course everyone knew exactly what she had done.

"Yes," she finally said, swallowing with some difficulty as her throat had gone dry.

"Did he null the contract?"

That caught her off-guard. "Yes, completely."

"So you should find another publisher. If your father was your greatest critic and he approved, surely it won't be so difficult to find another publisher, right? Then you might start again. You could even pay your father back some of the money. It might not help to ease his anger but it would certainly clear your name, right?"

Edith closed her eyes for a moment. "It's done, Anthony. I don't want to go back and I don't want to try again."

"You're too young to give up, darling," Anthony said. Every time he used the endearment he flinched slightly, turning away from her as though he regretted it.

"I'm not giving up, I'm accepting the consequences for what I've done."

"No, you're not," Anthony said softly. "You've too much life ahead of you to lock yourself away from the world. You have to move on, do better for yourself. You deserve better."

It felt an awful lot like Anthony was suggesting Edith leave Locksley, which meant leaving him. Edith knew she would have to eventually… probably… maybe… but to think about it was torture.

"If this is you cheering me up, you're doing a lousy job of it," Edith said quickly, earning a laugh from Anthony.

"Sorry, my sweet. I'm afraid I've limited means, but I will do my best. And no more talk of the past, at least for today. Yours _or_ mine," he added pointedly.

"Agreed," Edith said with a satisfied smile. They could talk later, over-think and analyze and face hard truths. Later.

It was a gray day, but the low cloud cover cut the cold, making it a bit balmier than the average November afternoon. The season's first traces of snow were gone as fast as they'd come, leaving green fields and black knobby trees behind. Even with the last of the leaves mostly on the ground, it was beautiful. A storm was rolling in the distance, and Edith made note of it, hoping to make it back to the house before it got too close.

Another five minutes of strolling, a turn around a bank of trees, and up from the landscape grew an old stone chapel, mostly consisting of columns and a roof, round and looking out over a lake.

"Anthony?" Edith asked, ready to fire off her round of questions, but Anthony shushed her gently.

Moving slowly and stealthily, Anthony led her into the temple, a simple structure but grand in its stature and stillness. As they moved closer, Edith saw that the hill fell from the far side steeply, the lake stretching away below turned black from the sunless sky. The contrast with the greenery around was striking. But most remarkable was the flock of swans that occupied the space, some huddled together in the water, a pure white mass, while most were milling around the temple and its steps, paying little mind to the human intruders.

"Anthony, it's lovely," Edith whispered. "What are they doing here? Don't they have somewhere warmer to go?"

"Not all swans migrate," he shrugged. "They could, and would if they knew what's best, but these stay despite the cold."

Edith arched an eyebrow at him before looking around again.

"When Papa was particularly displeased and later when I wanted to escape everyone at the house, I would come here. It's been abandoned for ages, of course, but that's rather the best part I think."

Edith released Anthony to go stand on the far edge of the structure, feeling as though she were floating above the landscape from her vantage point. Here, in the silence, she could forget so much that suddenly felt very far away. Except Anthony. He was quite close indeed.

"This is remarkable," she said, turning to face him. Anthony stood in the shadows of the temple's cover, leaning against the wall and looking like he was thinking entirely too much. "You're remarkable."

"Edith," he breathed, rubbing a hand over his face. Then, with a shake of his head he looked up and smiled.

"What's the matter?"

"I don't think I've ever enjoyed the view so much."

Edith blushed, feeling ridiculous for it, and watched the swans instead. She heard Anthony approaching and didn't look up until his feet came into view and his hand was gently coaxed her chin up.

"Thank you, Anthony, for being my friend," Edith said.

"Thank you, Edith."

"For what?"

Anthony huffed a mournful laugh. "For giving me back my life. In a manner of speaking."

They were standing close together, the swans all around them, and Edith was searching for the thing to say, trying hard to remind herself that none of this was possible, but it all seemed inevitable just the same.

"Edith," Anthony whispered, but just then Edith's mobile went off, a trilling, alarming sound in contrast with the silence. The birds, startled from their sanctuary, all began to flee.

"Anthony?" Edith shrieked, startled by the flock's violent reaction. She snapped her arms around him, pressing against his chest, eyes shut tight in fear. He was so solid against her, his hands firmly on her back to hold her steady.

"Shh, darling, look," he whispered. And when Edith opened her eyes she understood the awe in his tone. Hundreds of great birds, long wings flapping rhythmically as they took flight around them. The swans didn't scatter, they simply lifted off the ground, as if they had just chosen that moment to go. The length of their wings seemed endless in such a number, the sound of them beating the air almost beautiful. All around was nothing but white, fluttering movements.

And then all was still again as the annoyed birds settled in a far nook of the lake beneath some willow trees stretched over the water.

"I don't know why I keep the damn thing," Edith grumbled, pulling her mobile from her pocket and seeing that it was her sister. _Sybil_, Edith thought with a strange sense of nostalgia, as if her sister existed only in another life. Without hesitation, Edith pitched the offending device into the black depths of the lake and turned back to Anthony, whose arms were still loosely around her.

"Will you do something for me?" Edith asked, her voice trembling as if she were new at all of this.

"Anything."

"Kiss me?"

Anthony looked almost pained at the suggestion, and Edith braced for his refusal. But his hands moved over her back in a sort of affectionate pattern, and he leant toward her.

She could feel his warm breath on her face as her eyes closed of their own volition, and then she felt his lips against the apple of her cheek. His kiss lingered, soft though it was. Then he pulled away, though he seemed to hover near her ear for a moment.

"We should get back," he whispered, and Edith's heart broke just slightly.

"Lead the way, Sir Anthony," she managed, folding her arms over her chest to fight the chill that seemed to seep in suddenly. Halfway across the yard Anthony put his coat around her, not understanding that it wasn't the weather that left Edith cold.

When they reached the entry, Edith managed a sincere smile. "That was lovely, and the walk certainly did me well. Thank you, Anthony."

"You don't think we're done yet, do you?" he asked, all his bright humor returning.

"Aren't we?"

"I told you my mission _all_ day was to cheer you up, and it's just now after one. I've prepared a picnic lunch to be had in the room of your choosing, preferably one with a fireplace, and after lunch we'll play some cards or chess and I'll let you win, and then I have a surprise for you."

"A surprise? What is it? Did you find the ghost of Oscar Wilde to come entertain me?"

Anthony frowned as if Edith had offended. "I told you, I don't socialize with, nor am I aware of, others of my kind. I should think I would be entertainment enough for you, but if you disagree…"

He pretended to stalk off when Edith grabbed his arm with a laugh. "No, you're quite my favorite hallucination. No need for others," she quipped, earning a glower from her companion.

"Very well. Where would you like to eat?" he asked.

"Library, of course."

"Library of course," Anthony repeated. "You light the fire and I'll go fetch our tea."

"You're quite domestic you know," she teased after him.

In the solitude of the library she could only be glad they were past the awkwardness of the kiss, and a little sad that it had been so chaste. "You're losing your mind, Crawley," she muttered to herself, striking a match on the hearth and setting it to the logs.

Lunch was made of cold cuts and sweet rolls and some cakes Mrs. Carson left behind. They ate in front of the hearth, Anthony making Edith laugh with stories of his decrepit old nanny and the trouble he got into in the house. They played chess, which Anthony won despite his promise, and as the sky grew darker, Edith asked Anthony to read to her.

"What would you like me to read?"

"Anything, I don't care what it is."

"Very well," he said, picking up the first book on the nearby end table. "This appears to be a collection of short stories from the turn of the century. Alright with you?"

"My century or your century?" Edith asked as she settled into the sofa cushions with a thick afghan.

"My century."

"Lovely," she muttered. Anthony was sitting at her feet, and had just started on _Our Mr. Jupp_ when Edith sat up and stretched in the other direction, throwing a pillow on his leg and settling her head against it.

Anthony stammered for a moment, but Edith just made herself comfortable, happy to feel the firm muscle of his thigh beneath the cushion and hear closely the sounds of his breathing, the turning of the page, and the soft timbre of his voice. After a while, the hand not holding the little volume came to rest on her shoulder, only leaving her momentarily at the end of each page.

Lying there, Edith drifted between sleep and consciousness. She wasn't tired, per se, but utterly relaxed. In the library, just the two of them alone at Locksley, Edith could stop worrying about so much. She felt herself retracting from the outside world she used to be so concerned with, and it didn't bother her a bit. It probably should, she realized, but she'd worry about that another day. Today she was being cheered up by Anthony, and it was all she could do not to purr in contentment.


	6. Chapter 6

"Anthony, what was the surprise?" Edith muttered into his shoulder as he carried her to bed.

"Another time, perhaps, dearest," he answered, laying her against the pillows and tucking the blankets in around her. "You've been working too hard, and I ran you ragged today with our little hike. Just get some rest and tomorrow we'll do anything you like."

"You'll be here in the morning?" she asked, her words slurred with sleep.

"Of course."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

Edith wanted to stay up, to talk to him some more, to hold his hand or touch his hair, but she couldn't open her eyes.

"Stop fighting it, sweet. I'm here," he whispered near her ear, as if he could read her thoughts. The last thing Edith heard was his murmured "for now," and the last thing she thought was how she wished she hadn't.

Their Sunday was uneventful, spent reading in the library and watching a storm bluster across the lawn. Then Monday came and work began again. The next weeks were spent in their routine, going through the work and storage rooms downstairs.

It was decidedly colder below stairs, and Edith took to wearing wool socks and scarves around the house, which Anthony seemed to find some sort of humor in. "You look like an Eskimo," he said one day as he explained the function of some antique tools and gadgets.

Edith had elbowed him, and then an awkward silence fell. The teasing was all well and good, and the sleeping and the sharing of secrets and the mutual understanding. There was such an intimacy built between them, not as people but as souls. But to what end? The question grew louder each day, as did the realization that she was fairly in love with the man.

"Anthony, I know you've been putting me off, but I want to do the second attic next."

She practically felt his discomfort as he stood beside her, fiddling with an old egg beater. "If it's what you want."

Edith frowned. She knew him so well, but then he could turn around and be so very vague and mysterious. He was keeping something from her, she could tell. "What is in that attic, Anthony?"

"I don't know."

"But you know you don't want to see it."

"I can't remember, Edith, but ever since you came back I have these hazy—I don't know how to describe it."

"Ever since I came back?" she asked.

Anthony's blue eyes flashed up, full of confusion. "Sorry, ever since you brought me back. I don't know. Everything's a little…muddled, I suppose. I'm not used to feeling that way. I don't relish it."

"Poor darling," Edith muttered, patting his shoulder affectionately.

Upstairs some workers could be heard, weatherproofing the windows to prepare for winter. December had come before Edith realized, and outside snow had begun to pile up. She loved it because it made her feel even more at home, even safer from the outside world and all its harsh judgments.

"You're cold. We should go upstairs. There's nothing down here of real value anyway," Anthony said softly.

"I don't mind the cold. I want it to stay."

"Why?"

"Because once it thaws and Spring is here my job will be done, and then what?"

"Then you'll move on, darling," he said sadly. Edith just shook her head and sighed, having no argument at the moment but knowing she'd come up with one.

"Tomorrow the attic," she said, "for now, I have to talk to Mrs. Carson before she leaves, and then I want to meet you in our room because I have something I think you'll rather enjoy."

Anthony arched a wicked, teasing brow and Edith scoffed to hide her blushing.

"I'll bring dinner up," she said before hurrying away to find Mrs. Carson.

The sun had just fallen beneath the hills when Edith kicked the door open to the bedroom, hands full of a tray holding bowls of stew, a half-loaf of bread, two glasses, and a bottle of red.

"Mrs. Carson said it's infuriating I can eat enough for two and never gain an inch," Edith laughed as shut the door again, expecting Anthony to say something clever. When she was met with silence she began to panic, looking around the room and expecting him to be there. "Anthony? You said, you said you'd come." She set the tray down on the bed and was just about to go storm the house calling for him when a familiar warmth came from behind her.

"Perhaps try a Ouija board to summon me next time? Isn't that how it's supposed to work?" he asked.

Edith spun on her heel to meet that crooked, wry smile he always got when he was so fond of something he'd just said.

"You're quite smug sometimes, you know. And don't sneak up on me."

Anthony smiled. "I can't sneak up on you anymore. You always know I'm here before I have the chance."

"Hungry?" Edith asked, gesturing to the tray.

"Sure, why not?" he sighed, moving toward the chairs near the hearth.

"No, tonight we dine in bed."

Anthony turned, looking very wary and almost alarmed. "In bed? Why?"

"Because I have something to show you and it's the best way to do it."

Anthony blushed, earning a mirthful giggle from Edith who dropped demurely to the mattress and patted the space beside her.

"Edith, I'm not entirely sure… that is to say, we may not be the most traditional friends, but…" he stammered, and Edith finally decided to put him out of his misery.

"Anthony, relax," she said, pulling her laptop from beneath the pillow. "It's on my computer. Nothing untoward."

Anthony released a shaky breath, and Edith wondered if he was genuinely relieved or disappointed. Surely the thought of fooling around with her couldn't be _that_ distasteful to the man. Then again, Sir Anthony was a wealthy, fashionable nobleman from another time. Perhaps the facts of her past with Gregson offended his taste and manners.

Edith's worries were interrupted by Anthony climbing onto the bed, kicking off his loafers and removing his tweed jacket first. "What is it you'd possibly have to show me on that contraption of yours?"

"I found your secret stash of old crime novels," Edith said, passing him a bowl and spoon. "I know they're a secret because you didn't put them in the library, but in a cabinet in one of the drawing rooms."

"I was a fan of Mary Westmacott, I'll admit."

"Yes, well, she published long after you, you," Edith stammered, "Well anyway, she's considered a classic now, and her books—she's known by her real name, Agatha Christie—but her books have been made into films over and over."

"Is that so?" Anthony asked with honest interest.

"So, I've downloaded some of the best, and we're going to have ourselves a little marathon."

"You mean we can watch on this piece of metal?" he asked, thumping her laptop lightly.

Edith giggled, "Yes, my poor outdated ghost. And I think you'll rather enjoy it. Now, would you prefer 'Poirot' or 'And Then There Were None' first?" Edith asked, digging into her supper.

"Your choice, Sweet," Anthony shrugged, seeming skeptical about the whole thing.

"Very good, 'Poirot' it is." She picked an episode at random, starting with 'After the Funeral'. Once Anthony was done asking every question imaginable about the operation of the 'remarkable little machine,' he began to get interested in the show, commenting on the quality of the acting, etc.

After they'd finished the stew and polished off the wine, Edith had settled in under the covers, snuggling in against Anthony with the computer on his knees, and together they must have watched at least six hours of David Suchet playing the little French sleuth.

Edith woke sometime after one with a bit of a neck ache and a smile on her lips. The laptop had migrated to the end of the bed, forgotten in hers and Anthony's sleep. She was bent at the waist, using Anthony's stomach for a pillow, as his legs wrapped over hers and his hands wrapped loosely over her shoulders. Edith listened to his breathing for a moment, felt the rise and fall of his stomach with each breath, nuzzled against the cotton of his navy cardigan.

Her hands were trapped beneath her, but Edith pulled one up to run along the buttons of his sweater, and then the stitching on his leather belt. She wanted to see the details, to solder them into her brain. Because she might have created the illusion of a man out of loneliness or madness, but how could she think up the pattern of his socks or the material of his trousers, which appeared brown but up-close revealed a dense fabric with red and gold and tan and green thread?

"What are you doing?" Anthony asked lazily, a heavy, sleepy sigh escaping him as he caught Edith's hand in his to remove it from his thigh.

"Just…remembering," she said.

"Remembering?"

"I mean, committing to memory. Why, what did you think I mean?"

She felt Anthony shrug and then he shifted lower so that he was no longer half-sitting and Edith's head was at his shoulder.

"Did you like the show?" she asked, hoping to continue any sort of conversation with him.

"I did, very much. Thank you for thinking of it."

"You do so much for me, Anthony. I just wanted you to enjoy something too."

"Anything I might do for you is really for me, Edith, so I might see you smile or hear you laugh."

Edith's heart went all aflutter at that, and she wondered with some embarrassment if he could feel it against his ribs.

"Rather makes one think of murder though, doesn't it? I feel like I could get away with a crime now," he added with a laugh.

"But Poirot always solves them," she countered.

"Only because the culprit makes grievous mistakes. It seems during every explanation of the events Poirot says 'Ah, but that was your critical error, monsieur.' And then it's all over. I would simply avoid said error."

Edith chuckled softly. "Your arrogance comes so naturally to you, doesn't it?"

"Indeed, my sweet," Anthony laughed.

After a few moments, Edith worked up the nerve to ask the one thing she'd avoided the past several months. "Anthony?"

"Hmm?"

"How, how did you die?"

Anthony sighed, as if he were thinking about it. "I ceased to live," he finally answered.

Edith's head shot up, scowling at him in disapproval. "Anthony."

"I'm not being facetious, darling. I mean it. I think I gave up on life. I locked myself away from the world, I refused to continue the things in which I once found pleasure. I ceased to live, and the opposite of life is death. I _chose_ it, if you will, over the alternative."

"What was the alternative? Life?"

"Life without," he said, and Edith felt even more confused than she had before.

"You remember, don't you," she said flatly, more a statement than a query. "You remember now what happened between Maude and the end."

Anthony only looked at her, something like regret and guilt painting his features.

"Why didn't you tell me sooner? What do you remember? Was it terrible? Was there something big that happened in that time?" she rattled off.

Anthony stopped her with a hand to her jaw, his thumb over her lips. "Tomorrow we explore the attic, yes?"

Edith nodded, utterly nonplused.

"Then I'll tell you the whole story as it comes up, alright?"

"Promise?"

"Promise."

Edith kissed his thumb, still near her lips, before settling back against his chest. Her mind was reeling at the possibilities until sleep began to steal over her again. In the warm haze between sleep and consciousness, Edith was no longer wondering about her ghost or his past, or their future together—all she felt was a palpable sense that _this_ was right, that they were meant to be together, that she was somehow his for eternity.

* * *

A/N: Thank you for continuing to read and review! Don't think I'll make my Halloween deadline, but this story is about more than just ghosts so oh well. :) Happy reading and writing (there are so many wonderful fics happening right now I can hardly stand it)!


	7. Chapter 7

Edith and Anthony stood before the door to the north attic, shoulder to shoulder, while Anthony fidgeted with the key in his hand. Edith knew he was waiting, or rather hesitating.

"You never know, it's the week before Christmas, perhaps we'll find some decorations," she said, a limp attempt at humor.

Anthony's forced smile dissolved into a wince and then he looked down at his feet. "Edith, I'm sorry I'm such a coward."

"You're not a coward, Anthony."

"You don't know why I'm hesitant to show you," he muttered.

Edith took his hand in hers, perfectly willing to wait however long it took. And it took a while, too, before Anthony coughed and shook his head, squared his shoulders, and opened the door.

The north attic was much fuller than the south. It was darker, too, and less organized. Edith knew immediately Anthony had been more manic when he filled this space than when he had the other.

"Where would you like to begin?" Edith asked, looking around at the many boxes and crates, a broken mirror and several large objects covered in sheets.

"Let's move at your pace and I'll do my best to explain things as we go," he suggested, looking a bit gray and lacking in his usual humor.

"Are you sure about this?"

"Very," he said, giving her a hand a squeeze before dropping it and backing against a wall so she might explore.

To Edith's immediate left, a large thing about shoulder height in an indiscernible shape covered in a thick dustsheet. When she uncovered it with a loud thwap of the fabric, the dust sent them both coughing.

"Anthony!" she finally managed, swatting at the air around her face. "Why is this stashed away up here? It's fabulous!" In mint condition a grand old gramophone stood, a crate of perfectly good records stored beneath. "Will it still work? Is it electric, or…?"

Anthony smiled fondly at her as he pushed himself off the wall to come toward her. "This was a birthday gift from a dear friend, in happier times. I cherished it before things changed," he said. "It should work, hopefully. You wind it here and then put the record on and set the needle."

After Anthony did a little demonstration, Edith dropped to her knees to pick a record.

"Won't be anything modern for you, love," he reminded gently.

"I know some music from the twenties, Anthony. It'll be fine," she mumbled, flipping through. With a triumphant laugh she pulled her record of choice and made sure Anthony couldn't see as she set it on the turntable.

"What's so funny?"

"You'll see," she said as she readied the gramophone. When the table began to spin she clapped in delight. As silence crackled before the beginning of the song, Anthony's hand found Edith's elbow, slowly trailing down her arm before catching her wrist.

"Care to dance?" he asked, and Edith found his sheepishness even more alluring than his usual feigned swagger.

"Yes," she replied, and as the music started his fingers traced the contour of her waist before gripping it with a gentle sort of possessiveness. He pulled her close, her head falling by instinct to his chest as her free hand found his shoulder.

_My days have grown so lonely, but I have lost my one and only, my pride has been humbled, but I am yours body and soul._

_I was a mere sensation, my house of cards had no foundation, although it has crumbled, I am yours body and soul._

As they shuffled in the small space, Anthony's cheek pressed against hers, Edith could feel his knee brushing between her legs and found it quite distracting.

"This made you laugh?" Anthony asked softly.

"Body and _soul_?" Edith chuckled.

_What lies before me? The future is stormy, a winter that's great and cold. Unless there's magic, then end will be tragic and echo the tale that's been told so often._

_My life revolves about you, what earthly good am I without you? My castles have crumbled, but I am yours body and soul._

The rest of the song was instrumental, and even as they danced slowly, Edith looked up to gage Anthony's reaction. The lyrics had been strangely poignant. "Edith, darling," he exhaled, and only when he dropped his head did Edith notice the wetness in his eyes.

"Anthony, tell me. Tell me what it is."

Anthony shook his head slowly, and Edith thought he would push her away, brush her off again. Instead, he allowed his face to fall against her shoulder, hands pushing her scarf to the floor, his head still shaking so that his nose brushed feather light on the skin exposed at her collarbone from her boat-neck top.

"Anthony?" she whispered before her eyes fluttered shut and her hands slipped up to his hair.

He repeated her name against his skin, but she felt it more than she heard it as his lips found her neck. He dragged them up the length of it to kiss on her ear before traveling back to her pulse point. The light caresses alone would have been enough to drive her mad, but then they became light tastes, and then she felt the nibbling of his teeth as he lapped and worried her skin.

When he finally pulled back enough to press a chaste kiss to the spot, he mumbled an apology. "Oh, darling, I'm sorry. I got carried away," he said. But Edith was bowing into him so ardently that she was nearly bent backwards and her hands were like a vice around his shoulders.

The song crackled into silence before stopping altogether and then the only sound was of their breathing and the thrumming of her pulse in her ears. She turned her head slowly, her nose against his cheek, her lips trembling as they sought his out. Anthony's eyes were closed, as if he were afraid. Edith ran her nails over his scalp and felt his hands grip her waist even more fervently in response.

She felt the grain of his shaved skin and then the smoothness of the very corner of his mouth.

And then he was gone.

Edith stumbled a bit, catching herself on the table holding the gramophone. Without Anthony's strong arms and great hands holding her up she felt a bit wobbly and out of sorts. Baffled and more than a little out of breath, Edith didn't hear the approaching footsteps and accompanying chatter. All she heard was the sound of disappointment ripping her heart to shreds.

"You would be all the way in the attics when we arrive," came a voice so familiar Edith flinched. The attic door had been thrown open and there stood her two sisters, figures that seemed a lifetime away to Edith now. "Edith?" Sybil said with a worried little laugh.

"Edith, we came all the way out here and then climbed like five flights of stairs, the least you could do is say hello and offer us some tea," said Mary, eyebrows high on her head.

"Oh, oh sorry, I'm just, just surprised. Totally stunned, actually," Edith muttered, scrambling for her scarf before putting the record back in its paper cover and leading them away from the attic. "What on earth are you two doing here?"

"It's Christmas, darling, we wanted to surprise you," Sybil chirped.

"They're not," Edith began, then took a deep breath and said, "Just the two of you?"

"Just us. We left Tom and Matt to entertain the parents," Mary said in that tone Edith so despised, as if every living thing on earth bored Mary to the point of exhaustion. "We hoped you might put us up for the night, though now I'm not sure I'd like to stay."

"What? Why?" Edith asked, leading down the second floor corridor, past hers and Anthony's room, to the main stair.

"This house is incredibly creepy, Eed. I don't know how you stay in it alone. I feel like someone's watching me all the time," Mary said bluntly.

"Really? I think it's so warm and charming," Sybil countered, taking Edith's arm as they all moved for the library.

"Do you want tea?" Edith asked as she stoked the fire Anthony had started that very morning.

"Don't suppose we could order a pizza all the way out here," Sybil laughed. When Edith turned from the fireplace to face her sisters again, she tried to calm herself.

It was an intrusion, such a violent interruption in the life she had been living alone with Anthony and the Carsons and few others. She loved her sisters of course, or had in a former life, but it was so strange to be standing before them now.

Edith tried to think of something kind or grateful to say, and failed miserably. An awkward silence hovered between the three until Mary said, "Glad to see you haven't changed. Social skills still top-notch."

Edith blushed furiously before she managed to explain, "Mrs. Carson does the cooking during the week but as it's Saturday we're on our own. If you'd like we can go into the little town and get provisions and then come back. It's still early. The store's open until noon on weekends."

"Oh all the way until noon? How metropolitan," Mary said sarcastically.

"Sounds lovely," Sybil interrupted, grabbing Mary's forearm to silence her. "We'll load up on junk food and have an old-fashioned lie-in, like we used to as kids. What do you say?"

Edith agreed weakly, feeling sicker by the moment. She hadn't been beyond the yards of Locksley in months, hadn't seen anyone besides the Carsons in weeks, and now she'd be forced to go without Anthony for the duration of her sisters' stay. Not at all how she had hoped to enjoy her weekend.

The Crawley sisters did go to town, where they went to the grocer and the liquor store. Sybil chatted eagerly the whole time about her upcoming nuptials and Mary compared weddings with patronizing wisdom. Edith was mostly silent, nothing unusual for the three, but Edith felt as if she were learning to walk again.

The longer she was away from Locksley, and from Anthony, the more fearful she became that she really was going mad. Perhaps it was all in her mind after all. She was very near tears by the time they returned to the house and made a mess of the kitchen.

"Our," Edith began before catching herself. "My—my room is the warmest because the fire's been going and it's the best used. Less dust and all. We could, um, we could hang out in there. Watch movies on my laptop or whatever. We'll probably be the most comfortable there."

"Perfect," Sybil agreed, bounding upstairs with arms full of food.

Mary followed with the dishes. Edith trailed with the booze, hoping she could make it through the night.

By ten o'clock Edith was quite intoxicated, having enjoyed several bottles of wine herself. Sybil had finally exhausted the subject of weddings, and houses, and babies, and other things most sociable, healthy, mentally-sound young women discuss. Edith felt herself growing warm as they sprawled before the fire, loads of food scattered between them, Mary laughing coldly at some joke.

"Edith, are you alright?" Sybil finally asked. "You're all alone out here, no one's been able to get a hold of you for weeks. What happened to your mobile, by the way? And how will you ever meet someone if you're locked away counting Faberge eggs? Ugh, this house is absurdly cold. I'm going to throw another log on."

Edith's head was reeling from Sybil's usual deluge of questions and thoughts. It took a moment for her to register the last bit, but when she did she groused, "Oh, god, don't. I'm so hot." Edith pulled her scarf from her neck as best she could with drunk hands. The room seemed to be spinning and Edith realized all too late she should have stopped at least two glasses ago.

"Apparently Edith is finding people just fine," Mary said coolly, causing Edith to frown in confusion.

"What are you on about?" Edith asked, trying to pull her boots from her feet.

Sybil gasped, then giggled. "How on _earth_ did you manage that? And why haven't you said anything? Who is he?"

"Who's who?" Edith snapped.

"That man who gave you that prominent and rather tacky love bite," Mary answered, pointing to Edith's neck.

Edith struggled to stand, stumbling over to the mirror in the corner. Indeed, there it was. A scarlet bruise just above her collarbone where Anthony had paid such attention earlier. She ran her fingers over it, smiling at first for the memories and then for the realization.

No matter how she might try, Edith certainly couldn't have given herself a hickey.

Anthony was absolutely and without a doubt real.

"Eed, are you alright?" Sybil asked. "Tell me who he is."

"You wouldn't know him, and I don't want to talk about it yet," Edith managed, pressing on the bruise and smiling at the little bit of sensitivity there. Then her smile faded as her stomach turned. Not enough food and far too much wine her rational brain scolded.

Edith muttered something utterly incoherent before running into the bathroom and slamming the door shut. She was lucky to land at the commode when everything she'd consumed came back to haunt her.

And even vomiting profusely she laughed inwardly at the pun.

"Eed?" Sybil called through the door. "We're going to take the food down and get our things from the entry. We'll be back to check on you in a bit. Okay?"

"Fine," Edith groaned, wishing they'd just leave altogether. She lurched and heaved again, and again, and then slumped over to feel the cool of the tile against her clammy face.

"Can't have my Edith sleeping on a freezing floor," Anthony said gently, and he was under Edith before she could muster a response.

"Anth-ny, don't," she slurred. "I'm disg-sting."

"You're lovely, my little lush," he said, and though Edith was having trouble opening her eyes, she could feel that she was cradled in his lap. "Do you need to be sick again?"

"Indubitably," she answered, and she heard Anthony snort a laugh at her word choice. She would have laughed too if she wasn't scrambling blindly for the toilet again.

He held her hair and supported her weight, and when she was though he eased her back into his lap. The next thing Edith felt was a warm damp cloth over her face, wiping at her chin and mouth, and then her sweaty brow.

"Do you think you're all done or do you want to stay near the commode for a while longer?"

"Mmm, all done," Edith sighed, already feeling the relief of emptying her stomach. The spinning was slowing, the nausea ebbing.

"That's my darling. Drink this now because you won't want it in the morning," he said, pressing a glass into Edith's hand. It was fizzing antacid and Edith choked it down like a good soldier. Anthony made her finish another full glass of cold water before she felt the floor fall away beneath her.

"You're carrying me to bed?" she murmured, rubbing her nose against his shoulder.

"Only because I doubt you'd find it love. Now we haven't much time, would you like to change?"

"No," she said, shaking her head. Then she felt the weight of the mattress and the cool sheets.

"Alright, sweetheart. Your sisters will be here soon and I'm sure they'll stay in here with you. I've placed the pail here on the floor in case, yes?"

"Thank you."

"My pleasure, sweet." Edith felt his lips against her forehead and then at the bruise on her neck. "And I _am_ sorry."

Edith felt him pulling away and scrambled for his hand. When she found it she pulled it to her face and nuzzled his palm. "Will you be here in the morning?"

"Of course, once they leave."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

"Anthony?"

"Hmm?"

"I love you."

Edith heard his pause but even in her delirium she didn't blame him. She hardly appeared in a sound state of mind, she reasoned.

But then she felt his lips on her cheek and then her ear, and his voice whispered, "And I am yours, body and soul."

Then he was gone, and her sisters were asking her questions she couldn't answer, and jostling the bed enough to make her moan. After a while she just pretended to be passed out so she might ignore them without retribution. Finally their chatter grew quiet and they grew still, crammed into Anthony's side of the bed next to her.

* * *

A/N: The song is "Body and Soul" by Jack Fulton Jr. & Paul Whiteman and His Orchestra. It seemed fitting to the story. :)


	8. Chapter 8

Breakfast the following morning was a quiet but altogether more pleasant experience for the Crawley sisters. Edith was feeling quite happy and enthusiastic, despite her hangover, and kept smiling to herself every time she replayed the words _And I am yours, Body and Soul_. There was much to discuss with the man still, of course there was, but Edith no longer cared what the consequences were. She would be with Anthony whatever the cost.

"Did something happen in the night I'm not aware of?" Mary asked slowly, bringing Edith out of her reveries.

"Hmm? What do you mean?" Edith asked.

"You were such a grump yesterday, then you passed out, and suddenly you're walking on air. Did I miss something?"

"Leave her alone Mary. Maybe she's just glad you'll be leaving soon," Sybil giggled, throwing a bit of toast at Mary, who looked wholly affronted by the childish gesture.

Edith, who was beside Sybil as they all sat on stools around the kitchen island, leaned over to rest her head on Sybil's arm. "Sorry, I think I'm just remembering how to be happy after, well… everything."

"And it took this massive tomb to do it?" Mary asked skeptically.

"I guess so. I'd be perfectly content to live here forever," Edith said, wishing Anthony was there to hear her. She couldn't feel him about, though, and knew he was giving her and her sisters space.

"You live here for much longer and you're bound to be forgotten by the rest of the world," Mary warned.

"Would that be so bad?" Edith asked.

"Oh Eed," Sybil sighed, brushing Edith's hair maternally. "Michael was a real bastard and Papa reacting in the exact opposite way a father should have. But time will make it better. You can't keep punishing yourself, or them for that matter. Locking yourself away isn't going to do any good."

"I like it here. I'm at home here. More than I ever was at Papa's."

Sybil made a noise, ready to do battle for her case, when Mary laid out a hand to stop her. "It's fine, Edith, whatever you need to do. Just, just don't feel like you have to stay away," Mary said, generous as she could be.

Edith nodded and tried to imagine going back to London or to her parents' house, tried to picture showing up on Christmas as if nothing had happened. Then she realized the only way she would manage it was with Anthony by her side, and that was impossible.

And if Edith had to choose between Anthony Strallan and the rest of the known universe, she would choose him. Every time.

"Alright, I'm going to pop in the shower. Then we should be getting back," Mary said. "This place does have running water, yes?"

"No," Edith said coolly, "There's a little building out back with a hose and a brass tub."

Mary looked terrified until Sybil burst into laughter and Mary stalked off.

An hour later Edith had hugged her sisters, thanked them for the surprise, and stood, waving goodbye from the library windows.

"How are you feeling?" Anthony asked from behind Edith, bending low to kiss her shoulder once as she continued to smile and wave as Mary and Sybil worked their four-by-four down the snowy drive.

"Bit of a headache. Can't complain though, it's my own fault."

"Any reason you tried to drink yourself into oblivion yesterday?"

Edith shrugged, taking advantage of his proximity to lean back against his chest. Even now, after months of being in each other's pockets, Edith and Anthony were careful not to touch too often, a distance kept between them at all times.

"Mary always makes me anxious."

"There's more to it than that, I'd wager."

"Perhaps," Edith said. When the car had disappeared and they were once again completely alone, she turned to Anthony. "Thank you for taking care of me last night."

His eyes searched hers, even as he muttered a dismissal of her thanks. It was there now, between them, the exchange of words that had changed everything.

"Anthony, I," she began, but he interrupted.

"Darling, we need to get a few things sorted. I'll stop being such a mope. You deserve to know my whole story, and then we can go from there."

"I don't need to know everything to understand what I'm feeling, Anthony," Edith said quietly.

"I think you do, my darling." He sounded serious, and determined. Edith shrugged her consent, trusting him completely, and followed as he lead her slowly to the north attic.

Anthony pulled Edith through the door, past the gramophone, and then turned to face her. "I don't really know where to begin. There's, there's just so much. A whole lifetime, really."

"Well I'm not going anywhere," Edith said softly. Anthony nodded, and appeared to be thinking quite hard about something. After a time Edith asked, "You believe me, don't you? What I said last night, I meant it."

Anthony's eyes bore into hers. "I know, and I am so glad. But you don't have all the facts, and I'm afraid once you do you'll change your mind."

"Just tell me, please. Nothing could make me think less of you."

Anthony nodded, took a deep breath. "This box," he said, indicating a crate near his feet. Judging from the patterns in the dust on the floor he had just recently pulled it from the heap. "This contains my personal effects from my study. The _most_ personal. My man Stewart was good enough to collect them before the estate lawyers had their way with my home. When I died."

"May I look?" Edith asked, kneeling down beside it.

"I would very much appreciate it if you would. There's a story here, darling, and one I had quite forgotten until you came around, and I feel you have the right to hear it. And I think, once we've been through it together, everything will be clear."

Edith frowned, wary of his slightly foreboding tone. "Is this not a happy story?"

"It has its moments," he said gravely. Then, with a flash of that boyish grin of his, he added, "but I should warn you—I do die at the end of it."

"Thanks for the spoiler," she scoffed, moving for the lid before Anthony reached out to stop her.

"Let's take it downstairs. You'll be more comfortable in the library, as will I, I dare say."

Anthony carried the box, Edith made some tea and met him downstairs with a tray. After fussing with his milk and sugar, Anthony finally had run out of time and Edith waited, stubbornly patient, with the crate at her feet.

"Very well," he sighed, sitting next to her.

Edith removed the lid with reverence. She wasn't sure what to expect but it seemed a lot of buildup for little more than a few leather-bound journals, some letters, a couple velvet boxes of various sizes, and a few dusty frames.

"Where would you like to begin?" she asked, unwilling to dishevel the contents without his lead.

"I supposed we should start at the beginning," he replied, pulling out one of the leather journals. Anthony thumbed through to a particular page, then held the place with his finger and looked up to Edith. "You read my family history, yes?"

"I did, but it wasn't very personal. Except…"

"The passage at the end," he finished for her, nodding. "I realized how inappropriate it was to keep my personal journal in the family pages, so I started a new one." He held up the volume in his hand. "Do you remember what the passage said?"

"That you decided against asking a young woman to a concert?" Edith tried.

"Indeed, darling. Well remembered. Start here," he offered her the open journal and pointed at a page. "Read out loud if you will."

_It was meant to be a polite gesture, my asking the young lady on a drive to appease her mother who had gone to such extremes to make me feel welcome. When she declined I was most relieved, and then the younger came into view, and smiled in that shy, sweet way I noticed Monday night, and there it was, I was done-for. _

_Our drive was pleasant. Beyond pleasant, if I'm truly honest with myself. She is a delight, funny and smart as a whip. I sense that I may be the first in her life to take any sort of notice, to ask her opinion at all. For what other reason would she be so eager and warm?_

_I was so fond of Maude, rest her soul. She took such excellent care of my home and myself. I've never believed for a moment there could be anything more between a man and his wife, never once felt something may have been missing…until that afternoon. Is it very possible this child, this wisp of a thing with her dimples and her sarcasm, has found her way into the heart of me so quickly?_

_I am a fool if ever there was one, but that is neither here nor there at this point because on my way to dinner with Hugh and Harriet tonight I found myself calling on Lord and Lady Grantham to ask for her company. I swore I wouldn't, but I was weak and selfish, and no doubt I'll make a fine ass of myself, but we will go Saturday, together. I can only hope I don't embarrass myself or the dear young woman. _

_It is a blow, when I was so resigned to my own miserable future. Perhaps the only thing I fear more than the girl herself and my inability to win her over, is the unstoppable hope I feel rearing up. I should endeavor to keep my wits about me and act the old nobleman I am, to not moon over this young, bright thing and discomfit her. It is only a concert, after all, and then I'm very certain I shall never see her again._

Edith finished the passage and handed the book back to Anthony. "There was another woman? After Maude I mean? Is she why you couldn't remember? Did you just not want to remember? What happened to her? What happened at the concert?"

Anthony laughed gently at Edith's onslaught of questions. "We're at the beginning, darling. Everything will be revealed." Flipping through the journal, he opened to another passage. "We did attend the concert, and I remember now. I remember the feel of her satin-gloved hand when it slipped into mine during a Biret nocturne. I remember the distinct sensation of falling, as if the world had literally fallen from beneath my feet, when she smiled at me across the dining table."

Edith swallowed the lump in her throat, trying to remain understanding and calm and not be jealous of this 'young, bright thing' Anthony had been, and apparently still was, enamored with.

"Please read, darling," Anthony prompted, handing the journal back to her. "Just there."

_I don't know what to think or say. She has consumed my every thought. I can hardly butter my toast in the morning without hearing her soft laugh or wondering if she might enjoy some activity I have planned. I had no idea at all it could be so invasive, this feeling of love. I am old and weathered and feel quite foolish for my lack of experience in the matter. I almost feel guilty, having never felt this about dear Maude before she passed. I think of her less often, though I'm sure it's how she would have wanted it. _

_Today I must summon my courage, and try to hold to my last remaining dignity. Though if my Lady required it I would crawl on my knees through filth to pine at her feet. She doesn't, however, and wouldn't, because she is a darling, my dearest darling, and I intend to spend my remaining days worshiping her, if she'll allow it. I shall find out soon enough, because this afternoon I plan on proposing—a selfish thing indeed, but I am arrogant enough to believe I might make her happy._

_Dear god let her say yes. _

Edith barely managed the last bit, her voice cracking and betraying her.

"Don't cry my darling. Those drives, that time of courting, those are the happy parts I referenced earlier."

"I'm not crying for you, you idiot," she snapped, causing him to laugh sympathetically and wipe a tear carefully from her cheek. "You loved this woman? _Love_ her?"

Anthony nodded solemnly, and Edith's heart broke. "I did, and I do, and if you'll just bear with me, I think you'll be glad of it."

"I'm a silly woman, Anthony. Ignore me and tell your story," Edith grumbled, dropping the journal to his lap and leaning back against the arm of the couch. "I don't want to read any more. Just tell me."

Anthony nodded. "I intended to propose that day, but something came up."

"What?"

"A pernicious sister and the small matter of a world war being declared that very day."

Edith raised an eyebrow and folded her arms across her chest. She was acting like a child, but she suddenly felt very alone in the house, as she never had before.

"The woman I loved, she was nineteen at the time. I was forty-one. And when I was called into service—" Anthony began, but Edith interrupted at that.

"You fought in the war?"

"I spoke many languages, I was good with strategy, and I was a breathing male, so yes, I fought in the war," he said, sounding nearly bitter. "Anyway, I couldn't bear the thought of my darling being a war widow at so ripe an age. I already felt culpable from the age gap, and the war changed my mind about proposing."

"What happened to her?"

"She grew up," Anthony said, smiling fondly as he presumably thought back on it. "She learned to drive, she nursed soldiers, she kissed a farmer."

"Did she marry?"

"I always carried a torch for her, and when I was wounded I thought I'd—"

"You were wounded?!"

"Yes, right arm. Ghastly thing, damn near killed me. I was ready to die, too, when I found it would never be of use again."

"But, but it's not—your arm is quite capable."

Anthony shrugged. "Beauty of an afterlife, perhaps? Anyway, will you let me finish?"

"If you stop leaving out key details."

"My apologies."

"So you came back from the war, injured," Edith prompted.

"And I avoided her like the plague. I couldn't bear to ask her to be mine now that I was a cripple, you see, she was still only twenty-three."

"So you never saw her again?"

Anthony smiled, and even blushed a little. "Her grandmother arranged a rather surreptitious meeting. I walked in expecting a seventy year old widow and found my Lady looking all grown up, flushed and anxious and just as alarmed. It was as if I'd never been away from her. That was in January, by March we were engaged."

Here Anthony paused, digging through the crate for the velvet boxes. One was flat, roughly the size of his palm. He opened it to reveal a medal, and upon closer inspection Edith gasped. "You were awarded the VC?"

"I've never understood why they'd honor someone for getting his arm shot and prodded for a couple weeks, but there you have it. I never showed anyone except her and my man Stewart."

"Anthony," Edith muttered, in awe of him all over again. "May I, may I put this in the history? Make a display here in the house?"

"You may," he said with some reluctance.

He then presented the second box in his hand to Edith, and she needn't have opened it to know it contained a ring. But when she looked she went utterly speechless. An art deco thing with one square diamond framed by eight other rectangular ones, it was sparkly and grand without being gaudy. Edith even muttered a curse as she admired it.

"This was the engagement ring, and I don't remember ever feeling happier than when I slipped it on her finger. It happened here, in the library."

Something occurred to Edith as she pondered the ring. "Why do you have it and not the woman in question? What happened?"

"I left her at the altar," he said bluntly, and the ring, velvet box and all, tumbled from Edith's hand.

"What, why? You, you were so happy. Didn't you love her?"

"It's _because_ I loved her. I felt so guilty, so helpless. Things were said in the weeks leading up to our wedding. When we were alone it was fine but her family, Edith, they voiced what I knew. That she was too young and too lovely to be saddled with me for her life. I would die long before her, and I didn't deserve her. I wanted her to find someone younger and better, and I said as much."

"At the altar?" Edith shrieked, her tone unapologetically admonishing.

Anthony nodded.

"You were wrong, Anthony. Wrong to do it like that. And how arrogant must you be to make decisions for her? By your own account she was bright and independent and sharp. You treated her like a child who knew no better, and she loved you."

Edith was surprised at the rage building up in her, as if she had been the one standing there, watching her future, her every happiness, walk away and being utterly unable to stop him.

"She did love me. It was the worst mistake I've ever made in my life. Mistake isn't even the word. It was a tragic, epic failure of judgment. I failed us both."

"What happened to her?"

"She fell in with a sordid crowd. It was the twenties, things were changing. She, um, she got in 'the family way' as we used to say and was forced into exile, sent off to her grandmother's in America. I would have done something if I had known, but she, um, she died in the crossing, and the child."

"Anthony," Edith muttered, crying for the lot of them. "That poor woman. She would have been happy, you both would have been happy."

Anthony nodded, tears streaming down his own cheeks. Edith, feeling bad for scolding him so harshly when he'd clearly been punishing himself for an eternity, reached for his hand.

"Is that it? Is that the end? You said," she tried, but Anthony shushed her softly before reaching for one of the photos.

"I locked myself away here, stopped speaking with most people, totally shut out any friends I had. I tended to my land and after a time I even lost interest in that. I faded away, sweet, I chose not to live, I willed my body to give out. Ten years after that awful day at the church I finally died. I had thought it would be a blessing, but it wasn't. I've been here ever since, and I never knew why."

Anthony shifted to the floor, closer to Edith and looking up at her beseechingly. His took her hand and kissed it with something like worship, laid his forehead briefly against her hip, then looked back to her.

"Everything was blurry until you came back, darling. And the longer I watched you the more I remembered, and then you saw me and we started talking. And then when you fell from that ladder and I first touched you it was like a door had been opened."

"Came back? Anthony what are you talking about? Why did _I _make you remember and no one else?"

Anthony swallowed thickly, took the frame his other hand had been clutching, and slowly turned it over. "Because, my darling, this was the woman I loved. This was the woman I left. This is why you're here."

Edith took the frame from him, wiping the dust from the glass, and gasped. Her blood ran cold, a shiver traveled her spine. The picture was old, sepia toned and somewhat faded, and even then she couldn't deny the resemblance—the brown eyes, the over-large nose Edith had always lamented, the wavy dark-blonde hair.

Anthony spoke again, his voice deep and nearly trembling. "And her name, my darling, was Lady Edith."

* * *

A/N: Sorry for the length of this one! I hope the telling of their story wasn't too redundant. I needed Anthony to unfold things for Edith. And I know much is left unanswered, but bear with me. It will all get sorted. :)


	9. Chapter 9

The framed photo clattered to the floor as Edith scrambled away from it, as if it had stung her.

"But, but… no!" she stammered, "No, that doesn't… that can't be!"

"Edith, sweet, I know it's a lot to take in, but it's the truth. I can feel it. I loved you then and I love you now."

"But, I had a childhood, a whole lifetime I remember! This is my life, modern and present. I was born in 1988, Anthony!" She was bordering on frantic, trying to sort it all. Her brain told her it couldn't be true, it was impossible. But somewhere, deep within herself, somewhere in her that she had only shown to Anthony, Edith knew he was right.

"My dearest darling, I, I know how it sounds, I do. But I also know you. I _know your soul._ You asked me why I was stuck here. It's you, my sweet. I think I've been waiting for you to come back so I can make it right."

Edith stumbled backward over the arm of the couch, falling with an indelicate thud and rising on shaky legs. Anthony watched her, alarmed. He reached out for her quickly as if to catch her but stopped short when she steadied herself and her brown, frightened eyes found him.

"I know it's implausible," Anthony said softly, "I know it is a great deal to accept, Edith, my darling. But I also know, as I did back then, that we were meant for one another. I ruined both our lives, in the attempt to do the right thing, and I have been waiting for eighty years to tell you as much. I don't even expect you to forgive me, I just need you to know how deeply, purely, eternally, all-consumingly I am in love with you. And that I am sorry."

Edith felt the tears flowing, felt her logic crumbling. Where did logic fit in this situation anyway? "But, but I don't remember the past. How do you explain…"

Anthony shrugged once and said, "Past lives? Reincarnation? I don't know, dearest." Then, with his familiar cheeky smile, he added, "I never was a very, erm, _spiritual_ man."

Edith smiled, a weak and watery thing, and felt her heart spill over with love for him.

"There is a great many things I cannot attempt to understand or explain, Edith. All I can say with absolute conviction is that I love you, and I waited eighty years to tell you as much."

"This woman, was her last name Crawley then too? Wouldn't we be related?"

"Her last name was different, darling, she was the daughter of an Earl. She had sisters, and a brother who died in infancy, but they weren't Mary and Sybil. Some details are different, but you and she are the same. I can feel it."

Edith wanted to ask questions, to look into her family history, to investigate and analyze and try to find some answers. But she couldn't. Standing there, the love of her life (lives?) before her, begging forgiveness for something she didn't remember but could almost feel, asking her to forgive him.

Words wouldn't do, even if she could have found a way to articulate what she wanted to say.

"Edith?" Anthony whispered. They stared at each other for a moment, and then the months—lifetimes—of tension between them broke with a loud crack as though lightning struck the very floor between them.

They met each other half way, their bodies connecting with an audible thump. Mouths met in a clash of lips and teeth. There was such resolve there in their first kisses, as Anthony's hands clutched at Edith and hers wrapped desperately around his neck. Every inch of her was touching a part of Anthony Strallan, and it was like she was taking her first breath of life.

His hands mussed her hair, pulled blindly at the collar of her sweater to touch any skin they might find. Edith was trembling so violently she thought she might fall were it not for her love's hold on her. Edith wanted to move, to remove the layers of tweed and cotton keeping them apart, to feel his warmth and touch him all over, but his tongue was exploring her mouth with a sort of adoration, gently sucking hers into his own mouth, and she couldn't think.

When they were finally forced to separate for air, Anthony searched her eyes, asking a wordless question. "Oh god, yes please," Edith answered, and those were the last words spoken between them for some time. Anthony scooped her into his arms with a force she found as surprising as it was appealing. Everything about him seemed so very human, surely they could be together?

But then he was nibbling her ear and climbing the stairs and kicking open the door to their room.

Anthony deposited her on the bed without a great deal of finesse, kicking off his shoes before stretching out beside her. It was almost painful to be separated from him for even a moment, and Edith released a sigh of relief when he pressed against her again.

Her hands, eager to feel more of him than his clothing, fumbled to pull his shirt from his trousers. The simple fact of his bare back beneath her fingertips sent her heart thrumming. He seemed to have the same thought because he was pushing up her flimsy dress and rubbing circles on her hips and flanks. The heat from his hands through her tights went straight to the pit of her stomach, setting her whole body on fire.

Edith trailed her fingers from his lower back to his stomach and smiled against his mouth when she felt his abs clench beneath her touch. She went to work on the buttons of his shirt as he moved to hover over her. Anthony had a knee on either side of Edith's right leg, a hand on either side of her head, as he nibbled her ear and neck.

Anthony released a small, deep groan when Edith finally left his shirt and cardigan gaping open to lean up and press a kiss to his muscular chest. The sound urged her on as she trailed kisses from shoulder to shoulder and up his neck.

He wasn't idle during her exploration. His hands slid higher beneath her little shift, grazing the underside of her breasts through her simple lace bra.

So much was going through Edith's head—could this be happening? Could they even do this? Should they? But then his lips returned to hers, more reverent and much softer, and then he pulled back to look at her.

"I love you," she said.

"I've loved you for a hundred years," he replied.

They finished undressing with a fervor born of deep, deep longing, not just for the physical but for the emotional connection. Their souls needed mending, if Anthony was correct, and this seemed the most natural way to do it.

Anthony acted with veneration, keeping his Edith safe and handling her with delicacy despite their urgency. She, on the other hand, had no choice but to let go. She released every worry, forgot every question, ignored every doubt and bit of logic. She surrendered to him completely.

They gave in to each other, really. It was instinctual, feral, transcendental. They came together, not of this world or that, of this time or that one, but just as two souls, feeding on each other in an explosive coupling, driven by love and need and pain and passion.

After, they lay on the mangled sheets, panting and exhausted and both feeling very much alive, for lack of a better word. They were both on their stomachs, Edith's left hand in Anthony's right, as they came back to earth.

When she was finally able, Edith asked, "Why didn't we do that before? I mean, you knew you could touch me, why didn't you?"

"Because I always knew it would be this hard to stop," Anthony replied.

Edith's brain, in its post-coital haze, took a moment to process that. "Wait, what do you mean stop? Why would we _ever_? I want to do that for the rest of our lives."

"But you forget, my darling, my life has already ended."

Edith sat up, tucking the top sheet under her arms as she faced Anthony. "But we're together now. We'll continue being together."

"I waited eighty years to make things right, Edith. I ruined your life once. I won't do it again."

"You can't just expect me to walk away! What do you propose we do now, after all this?"

"What do _you_ propose we do?" he countered, much calmer and much sadder than Edith's challenge had been.

"You're _real_, tangible, obviously," she said with a little growl of frustration behind her words. "We can be together in the most important ways. I'll stay on here as curator and live out my days and then we'll just be together, forever."

"You are twenty-five and you want to simply never leave this estate again?"

"If I must then you can come with me. Have you ever tried? What if nothing's stopping you?"

"And what will you tell your parents? That you've committed to a life of celibacy?"

"If I can see you why shouldn't they? You said no one noticed you before I came, but you never really noticed them either, right? So maybe now people can see you. They'd never have to know."

"And when I fail to grow old? I'm twice your age, don't you think people would notice when I never gained another wrinkle or fell ill or anything?"

Edith felt her heart battling her brain. Her arguments were running thin. "I don't, I don't care about that, about what anyone thinks. I just want you."

"And children? Marriage? I can offer you none of that Edith. Can you live without that?"

"I would, for you," she answered.

"That's not the same," he said gently. He didn't look remotely smug or pleased about being right as he reached to rub apologetic circles on her leg.

"I just," she tried, shaking her head. "I just can't believe that you waited this long, gave me all this, and now you want me to go."

"I waited this long to tell you that I'm sorry, that I was wrong to make decisions for you, to deny our love and friendship for the sake of propriety and tradition. I destroyed everything good that we had, out of arrogance and ignorance and doubt. I won't keep you here, keep you from living your life, even if it is for the sake of love."

"That's the same bloody mistake you made then. You're making a decision for my sake that you've no right to make," Edith said, her argument somewhat undermined by her angry, sputtering tears.

"No darling. It's different. Because I was alive then and had the ability to offer the things you want. I've nothing to offer you now but a lifetime of isolation and emptiness. A half-life."

"Then why? Why start all this at all?"

"To tell you I'm sorry, to remind you what true love can be, and," he paused, sitting up and taking her hands between his. "Edith, I think I might be a sort of cautionary tale. I was heartbroken, lost almost every acquaintance I had and shut out the rest. I threw everything away, decayed in misery and solitude, until I finally willed myself to die."

Edith flinched at his words, forced to acknowledge certain truths.

"Edith, you can't let your heartbreak and embarrassment over Gregson and your father's abandonment consume you. I know you came here to disappear, to hide."

"But then I met you," she whispered, clutching at him.

"Yes, my lovely. And I'm here to tell you that you're brilliant, and beautiful, and strong, and capable, and you must not throw yourself away as I did. You must live, Edith. Live for us both, and for the version of you I destroyed, and most importantly you must live for yourself."

"How can I without you?" she asked, pitching herself against him so they both fell back. She was sobbing now, uncontrollably. Anthony held her close, cooing and tutting in her ear as he stroked her hair and back.

"You will carry on, Edith. You will live the life you were meant before I ruined it all those years ago. You will be happy, and loved, and free and you will not give in to your fear and heartache, because you're far too young and lovely for such a life."

She cried even harder then, face buried against his neck, bare chest pressed to his. She couldn't bear to leave him. What he was asking simply wasn't possible.

When Edith had calmed and her sobbing had faded into the occasional sniff and hiccup, she looked up at him from his shoulder and asked, "Is it me you love? Or is it that I look like her? If I showed up here without the past, would you still love me?"

Anthony sighed. "I love you for all those reasons. I loved her and I love you because you are the same, but Edith honey, if I had no knowledge of our history I would still have fallen for you as you muttered to yourself in the library."

Edith laughed noiselessly against his skin, feeling the exhaustion of the lovemaking and the crying and the bone-crushing sadness of potentially losing him pulling at her.

"I love you anywhere, anytime, any century. I'd love you if you were a Grecian temptress or a Russian ballerina or the Queen of England or a hundred-year-old spinster or," he listed, before Edith silenced him with a kiss. It was sweet, and soft, and deep.

"Will you be here in the morning?" she asked, knowing her mortal body would win in the end and she'd be forced to sleep eventually.

This time Anthony didn't answer her, only kissed her back, easing her to the pillows and moving between her legs. She wanted to press him for his usual promise, but his length was resting on her thigh and she was perfectly content to let herself be distracted.

* * *

A/N: Sorry for the lengths between updates. I was a little disheartened by the last several episodes among other things and it took a while to get back into the story. I hate that Edith is making a decision that can't be undone, and it's silly how much it's breaking my heart because, of course, it's just television.

Also, I decided that Edith the First would have to have a different name or be related. I didn't want her to be related by blood to Edith as they are the same person in different times, so Edith the First had a different (but the same) family. Make sense?

I've loved all the stories being posted. I'm working on going through and reviewing now that I'm back at a comp. Thank you, as always, for being lovely readers and ever lovelier writers! Long live Andith!


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